


Diffraction Patterns (I Don't Know How to Forget You)

by yourdifferentoctober



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), First Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Hand Jobs, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Love Bites, M/M, Memory Alteration, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Snogging, Top Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 93,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdifferentoctober/pseuds/yourdifferentoctober
Summary: When Harry Potter, of all people, offers to help Draco erase his Dark Mark, he has no choice but to accept. He wants it gone. He wants to forget. He wants to reconstitute the past. Never mind that erasures leave real marks on bodies, real traces on the world in its becoming. This is not how he expected his eighth year to go.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 180
Kudos: 1036
Collections: Numerous OTPS Infinite Fandoms





	1. Superposition

**Author's Note:**

> Erasure is a material practice that leaves its trace in the very worlding of the world.
> 
> -Karen Barad
> 
> This story began as a one-shot; I've decided to divide it into five parts for ease of reading. There are references to past non-consensual coercion but no explicit descriptions. 
> 
> In writing this fic, I was very much inspired by work by Barad and others on quantum entanglement, intra-activity, and superposition.
> 
> Here is the playlist for the fic:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6lKoiJdxKbKgFrUs67CFnC?si=6Ib_adz9SUKV5jYGc9XZ2g

Every time the holly wand touched his Mark, Draco bristled. All he could smell was rain, thick and musky as it seeped out of the ground to embrace them. In the forest, they couldn’t see the castle’s lights. It was easy, nestled among the trees, to forget where they were at all. They sat together on the grass, and although it was still damp, they were comfortable enough: Potter had conjured a thick crimson blanket. Potter had taken care of it. Potter took care of everything. Draco stretched out, holding his sleeve up from his Mark even though every last nerve in his body urged him not to. Never mind that it was dark out, that they both had to squint to make out the Mark’s inky black form. Revealing it felt like a particularly brutal form of masochism. He had considered, more than once, cutting off his arm, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The Mark was _in him_ , in his blood, pumping through his body every time his heart beat.

“Alright?” Potter’s voice came from next to him. He was on his knees, gently tracing his wand over Draco’s arm. Draco sat cross-legged next to him, looking away stubbornly.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, more insistent now. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Did it feel any different today?”

“No.”

“Mmm.” Glancing over, Draco saw Potter’s brows furrow. He looked as though he was considering a particularly vexing exam question. “It could be a while. The whole year, even.”

“Right.”

“We’ll have to go a lot deeper, I think.” Potter gazed up at him—feeling caught, vulnerable, exposed, Draco looked away. “Is that alright?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” Every time he lashed out like that, he shrunk in shame. But it was as though he couldn’t help it. He felt very little these days other than anger, and it took almost nothing to provoke him.

“Okay.” If Potter was annoyed with him, he didn’t show it. And that was something else that set him off, as well. Potter was so complacent, so unbothered. As usual, Draco felt bested by him: he had been brave enough to face the Dark Lord, had sacrificed himself, had come back to save them all, and now he was unfazed by Draco’s snide remarks. Maladaptive and self-sabotaging as always, Draco wanted desperately to find some way of throwing him off course. But nothing he said seemed to make a difference.

“I’m going in now, alright? Three…two…one…”

Draco braced himself as best he could, but it never seemed to matter. Potter’s forays into his memory were an onslaught. His Mark burned, and he tried to wrench his arm away, but Potter held him tightly. He peeled through the layers of memories so quickly that Draco felt dizzy. He suspected that Potter found the entire thing just as unpleasant, and that he wanted to get it over with as quickly as he could. The previous two times, Potter had limited himself to rather benign memories: Draco watching as the Dark Lord settled into the Manor, establishing his childhood home as his new headquarters; Draco using his mother’s wand, reluctant to take it from her and yet needing to protect himself. Now, however, he dug deeper, unfolding various memories before he stumbled upon a scene at the Manor.

 _It was springtime. His parents were indoors, preparing the dining hall for another meeting. Draco, foolishly, had decided to meander outdoors, if only for a bit of fresh air. And that was when he came across Travers and Macnair. They were whispering angrily to each other; Draco couldn’t hear them. But that didn’t matter, anyway, because suddenly Travers had pointed his wand at Macnair and shouted, “_ Crucio!” _Instantly, Macnair was on the ground, shrieking, writhing in pain, and the faint sounds of conversation coming from the dining hall ended abruptly…and Draco, horrified, tripped backwards, heart pounding, incapable of peeling his eyes off Macnair’s face as he wheezed in agony…_

_“You’re lucky you have pure blood, Macnair,” Travers spat, towering over him. Draco tripped on the paving and Travers turned; as he caught sight of Draco, he frowned, and raised his wand…_

Suddenly, mercifully, he heard Potter muttering to himself…and then the scene before them crumbled into a hundred little pieces, tearing at the seams, Travers’ face disintegrating…

Draco gulped in the thick, humid air as he was yanked forward. He nearly retched. As best he could, he tried to focus on anything else but the nausea rolling through him: Potter’s hand on his back, the musky petrichor permeating the air, the quiet, soothing sounds Potter was making. Better. Better. As his heart settled, he fumbled around for something he could touch, and came upon the thick blanket beneath him. He was in the forest. He was in the forest with Potter. He was not…he was not…where had he been before this?

“I can’t remember,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever we just saw. I can’t remember. I mean, I can sort of…” Draco squeezed his eyes tightly. “If I really think, I can see the outlines. And I think I can hear someone…but not really. Was it…was it about…?”

“Travers,” Potter said. “And Macnair.”

“What were they doing?”

“I dunno…you sort of crept up on them,” Potter said, shifting nervously. “And Travers was torturing Macnair, and he said something about…about being pure-blood, I dunno…”

That word. Pure-blood. Every time he heard it, Draco felt faint. That silly little word contained within it everything that had set his parents off on the course to ruin their family. He couldn’t hear it without recoiling, his stomach tying itself up in knots. Aware that Potter was staring at him, a peculiar look on his face, Draco forced himself to croak out, “I can’t remember anymore.”

“That’s good,” Potter said. “That’s really good. Does it look different at all?”

Draco peeked down at his Mark. As far as he could tell in the dark, there was no change. He shook his head and yanked down his sleeve.

“We’ve got loads more to do,” Potter was saying. “It’ll work.”

“Yeah.” Although he was still dizzy, Draco couldn’t stand the thought of Potter comforting him for a moment longer. He rose unsteadily to his feet, pushing Potter’s hand away as he reached out for him. “I’m fine. Gonna go…go to the castle.”

“Right.” Potter was at his side at once, Vanishing the blanket. “Go get some sleep. I’m free this time next week.”

“No. Tuesday.”

“What?” Potter looked up at him sharply. “That’s too soon. You need time in-between, to rest.”

“I said I’m fine,” Draco snapped, hating himself for it. He had the self-control of a child these days. “Tuesday. Alright?”

Unmoved as ever, Potter shrugged. “Fine. I’ll see you then.”

Once again, Draco found himself off-kilter as Potter refused to engage him. This was maddening. Still dizzy from having his memory picked through and then erased, Draco struggled with the anger and the irritation boiling just beneath his skin. He wanted to argue with Potter, to fight, to hit him or shove him around a bit, anything to work through the rage. But Potter simply stood there, blinking at him. Incensed, Draco stormed off back to the castle, not checking to see if Potter followed.

***

Pansy huddled close to Draco as she sipped her cup of tea. They sat together on a stone bench by Greenhouse One, watching as a group of Gryffindors trickled by. Draco was supposed to be reading through the third chapter of _The Standard Book of Spells Year Seven._

“They’re so little,” Pansy mused as one of the boys tripped on his cloak. “They make me feel old.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re hardly geriatric.”

“Still. How are we eighteen already? You don’t feel like the time just flew by?”

“Not really.” He flipped through a few pages and sighed. “Have you finished this paper?”

“Which? For Flitwick?” Pansy frowned at him. “Of course I have. It’s revision.”

Draco shrugged. “I’ve read this chapter twice now, and I still can’t remember anything.”

“Well, maybe you need a break. And anyway, you’re supposed to be telling me all the gossip.”

“The gossip?” He snorted. “What is there to tell? Everyone’s as boring this year as they are every year.”

She made a face at him. “Very funny.” They were quiet for a moment as two Ravenclaw girls passed by. They were loudly discussing a friend of theirs who had set his parchment on fire in Charms. “Alright, then,” Pansy said, turning to him. She spoke in that businesslike tone Draco had come to fear. “I’ve got a bit of gossip we can discuss. Where are you disappearing to at night?”

These were the moments when Draco was grateful for the training he had received under his father’s tutelage. He kept his face carefully disinterested, following the two girls as they wound up the path. In a bored tone, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“For three nights now, Blaise hasn’t been able to find you.”

“He can’t find me?” Playing stupid, Draco glanced over at her, confused. “What does he need me for?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t _need_ you for anything. It’s just…he wakes up, and you’re not in bed.”

“I’ve probably just gone to the loo.”

“But he waits _ages_ for you to get back. And you never do.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe he’s dreaming?”

“Maybe,” Pansy said doubtfully. “You’re _sure_ you’re not going anywhere?”

“You never know.” Draco turned back to his textbook. “Maybe I’m sneaking off every night to get buggered around the castle.”

He smirked as Pansy choked on her tea. “I didn’t mean it like _that,_ ” she gasped, beating her chest as she coughed. “God, Draco.”

“Oh, really? What else could you have meant?”

“I don’t know!” Clearing her throat one last time, she said, “I just thought…it would be nice, you know. If you did find someone.”

“Pansy,” he said drily, “nobody here is lining up to have a turn with a former Death Eater.”

“Not just former,” she said at once, as she always did. “Defected. You saw what the _Prophet_ wrote about you and your mother.” She hesitated, and then asked in a quiet voice, “How is she, by the way? Your mother?”

“I don’t know.” Draco avoided her eyes, wishing they could go back to their previous discussion of what he got up to at night. “Fine, I guess. I think my parents’ marriage is in shambles, though.”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” Pansy muttered.

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s just odd, now that everything’s over. A lot of people, a lot of families, are falling apart, now that they’ve…”

“Lost?” Draco supplied.

“I guess so.” She looked down at her half-finished cup of tea. “We were never involved, not really. But after what I said last year…I don’t know, it’s…I still feel like everyone…”

“You’re fine.” Draco reached out and held her wrist. “You spoke to Potter, right?”

“I did. And he said it’s alright. But that’s just him, isn’t it? That’s the way he is.” Pansy gave a loud sniff. “Actually, he didn’t really seem to want to talk about it at all.”

“Right.” Uncomfortable, Draco pretended to suddenly become interested in his book again.

“And what about you? Did you ever talk to him, after your trial?”

“Who? Potter? Ah…yeah. I guess.” Avoiding her eyes, Draco looked out at the grounds. Already, the trees were changing: the giant oaks had turned the most brilliant shades of orange, red, and yellow, the pines had begun their gradual shift to a darker green, and the birches were ornamented with strips of peeling bark. In his mind, autumn always meant the start of a new school year. It would be very odd, next year, not boarding the Hogwarts Express come September.

Aware that Pansy was staring at him, he gave a short cough. “It was fine. I think you’re right. I think he just wants to forget all of it. Can you blame him?”

“Of course not,” she said promptly. Since the Battle, Pansy had been very careful about toeing the line when it came to Potter. “I just thought he might have said something, you know, about what your mother did, or what happened at the Manor.”

“Nobody wants to rehash that old rubbish,” he said. Before Pansy could press the issue, Draco snapped his book shut. “Let’s get inside. It’s cold out here.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but Draco turned away. Pansy was absolutely relentless in insisting that the events of the last two years had not played out as he remembered them. But she was wrong. In some places his memory was already crumbling, but even through the rubble he could piece together truly awful remnants. Pansy’s unwavering trust in him was the bedrock of their friendship, and to splinter that trust would leave them…where? He didn’t know. So he forced a smile onto his face and pretended that everything was fine.

***

If the dense darkness of the forest was disconcerting, Draco drew comfort from the familiar sound of dried leaves skittering together as the wind whipped through the branches. To his mind, the leaves sounded like hundreds of ghosts whispering together, discussing the scene unfolding on the forest floor: he and Potter, sat as closely together as they dared, Potter examining his arm while he stubbornly looked away. He wondered what the forest thought of their intrusions.

“Does that hurt?” Potter asked him, rubbing his thumb along Draco’s Mark.

It did hurt, of course—the pain was like an icy jolt, ripping through his skin. But Draco grit his teeth and shook his head.

“I’ll wait a bit, give you time to adjust.”

“Get on with it, would you?” Lashing out at Potter should have made it better, but instead he felt worse. He looked away as Potter pressed his wand against his Mark, twisting the tip so that it dug into his flesh. Draco nearly gasped from the fresh stab of pain.

“Right. Here we go.” Potter took a deep breath, and then, “Three…two…one…”

_Draco was shrouded in darkness. He could hardly see his hands as he slid them down the door, reaching for the knob. Slowly, very slowly, he opened the door just a crack. Just enough to hear the conversation downstairs. Several people were shouting—he heard his father bark at someone to sit down. Heart racing, Draco strained to hear, but there was no need, because the Dark Lord’s voice cut through the din._

_“We have a guest.”_

_Jeering, laughing, taunting. They had a Muggleborn in the dining hall. Draco abruptly pulled back and made to shut the door, but it was too late—even though he had been expecting it, he jumped at the sound of the shriek cutting through the Manor. Whoever it was, they were begging…begging to be allowed to live, and then begging to be killed quickly, painlessly…_

Draco felt Potter’s hand on his back as he retched onto the grass. Nothing came up. The scream still echoed in his ears, but it was already fainter, as though slowly siphoning down into a funnel. Draco pressed his palms into his eyes and tried to recall what he had just seen. After a moment, he let out a deep breath.

“I-I don’t remember. Not really. It’s…it’s just about gone.”

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

He nodded. Potter pushed up his sleeve, examining his arm. Draco flinched as he felt warm fingertips brush against his skin.

“It’s paler, I think,” Potter said quietly. “But I can’t be sure. What do you think?”

Draco pulled his hands away from his face and glanced at the Mark. His heart stopped. It _was_ a bit fuzzier than it had been—the outline was blurred, as though someone had rubbed at the inky lines. As calmly as he could, Draco said, “Yeah. It looks…better.”

“ _Lumos._ ”

Draco winced as Potter’s wand suddenly came alight. “Fuck off, Potter,” he growled, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Sorry…sorry…” But Potter was hardly paying attention to him. Instead, his eyes were roving over the Mark. “It’s definitely less solid. Definitely.”

“Yeah.” Uncomfortable, Draco pried his arm away. As he pulled down his sleeve, Potter seemed to come to his senses. Abashed, he extinguished his wand, casting them again into darkness. Draco didn’t know what to do. He was still too lightheaded to stand up and head back to the castle, but he had no interest in sitting with Potter longer than necessary.

“How do you feel?”

Draco rubbed at his forearm. “Alright.”

“Your Mark hurts?”

“A bit.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Another flash of anger shot through him. He couldn’t stand Potter’s sympathy. He just couldn’t. Still dizzy, Draco forced himself up. His knees nearly buckled, sending him wobbling dangerously in Potter’s direction, but he managed to right himself.

Potter fumbled to steady him in the dark. “Malfoy, careful!” he warned. “You need to sit down.”

Draco couldn’t even bring himself to reply. If he opened his mouth, he might be sick. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself and strode back to the castle. As he walked, he tried to recall the memory that had just been stripped away from his consciousness. A scream was still ringing in his ears; perhaps he would never be rid of it. Maybe it had permanently marked him. He no longer remembered who it belonged to—perhaps he had never known—but it was etched into his soul, preserved there among the other marks he couldn’t seem to shake.

***

He never had much to say during Transfiguration. Pansy and Blaise kept up a constant stream of conversation, nattering on about their relatives in far-flung places. For his part, Draco listened absently, watching as the mouse he had transfigured from a toad sat atop his textbook and groomed itself. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his crossed arms, as the little gray mouse wiped its face. Carefully, Draco held out his hand; despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch as the mouse sniffed along his palm.

“Draco, you’ll be coming with us this summer, won’t you?” Pansy’s voice startled him. He glanced up at her, annoyed, and then looked back at the mouse, hoping they would ignore him if he didn’t respond. No such luck. “We’ll all be staying by the Elbe.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Last time we holidayed in Germany, we couldn’t have been older than seven or eight,” he heard Blaise say. “My mother was dating that awful man. God, I hated him. What was his name? The one with the beard.”

“He _was_ awful,” Pansy agreed. “ _So_ rude. I don’t know why your mother kept him around.”

“He had loads of money. Worked abroad, some sort of shady business with broomsticks…I can’t remember his name, though, it’s on the tip of my tongue…”

Draco rolled his eyes. The mouse was scurrying down the side of his textbook and onto the desk. Pulling back his elbow, Draco granted it access to the parchment on which he had been writing his notes. It started to nibble the corner. “Are you hungry?” he murmured, reaching out to stroke it. Its short, bristly hairs were rough against his fingers.

“We’ll be going to the theatre,” Pansy went on. “My father’s gotten us all tickets.” Draco grimaced. Pansy, catching sight of him, said quickly, “Don’t worry. He’s sure your mother will be able to leave the country by then. Everyone says so.”

“Yeah.”

“There we are!” Blaise sat back happily, watching as the white mouse he had just transfigured darted across his desk.

“Careful,” Draco grumbled, picking up his own mouse and placing it on his other arm, away from Blaise’s.

“But I don’t think we’ll spend the whole summer in Germany,” Pansy said. Her toad sat before her, croaking softly. “Do you, Blaise?”

“I doubt it. I know my mother wants to see some family in Malta…I hope we don’t go in August…it’s always so hot that time of year…”

Draco didn’t hear Pansy’s response as a wave of laughter erupted at the other end of the classroom. Looking up, Draco saw Potter surrounded by his usual entourage. Finnigan had managed to turn his toad into what looked like a beaver. The enormous rodent launched itself onto the floor, darting through people’s legs as it made for the door. Potter, Weasley, and Thomas howled as Granger hastily transfigured it back into a toad.

“What have you done that for?” Finnigan was shouting. “That’s close enough to a mouse, isn’t it!”

Draco snorted. At once, Potter turned towards him. Their eyes met briefly before Potter smiled and looked away. Draco blinked at him, startled, when McGonagall called for their attention.

“That’s enough for today,” she said. “I expect a full two feet of parchment on trans-species Transfiguration.” As they groaned, she spoke over them: “For those of you who have been successful, please transfigure your mouse back into a toad and bring it up to the front here.”

As the others brought their toads to the box on McGonagall’s desk, Draco hastily slipped his mouse into his cloak pocket. He looked over at Blaise and Pansy—they were still discussing their plans for the summer holidays. Before they could notice him, Draco grabbed his satchel and hurried out into the corridor. He made his way to the entrance hall, taking the little mouse out of his pocket as he stepped outside.

“You’d better find somewhere to sleep,” he warned, looking up at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon, and there’s bound to be owls around, hunting.”

He squatted down and set the mouse onto the grass. Looking down at it dubiously, he wondered whether it would survive the night. But the mouse seemed happy enough, scurrying off into the grass until it disappeared. Straightening up, Draco turned back to the castle when he caught sight of Potter, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

“Potter,” he grunted, shouldering his satchel.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, a neutral look on his face.

Irate, Draco snapped, “What? Have I committed a crime? Go on and tell McGonagall, then.”

Potter’s expression remained unchanged. “I just asked why you did it.”

“And it’s none of your business.” The truth was, he didn’t have an answer. It just seemed cruel, somehow, to turn the mouse back into a toad. But he couldn’t explain himself. He pushed past Potter, making sure to bump their shoulders together as he stormed into the castle. Potter, of course, said nothing, did nothing, simply watching him as he stalked away.

***

“Here. Use this.” Draco didn’t know how to react when he felt something plush being shoved into his hands. He looked down: even in the dark, he could see that it was a pillow.

“I’m fine,” he said without thinking. That response had become automatic to him, as natural as breathing. When Potter said nothing, he reiterated, “I’m fine.”

“Lay down. It’ll be easier.”

“What? No.”

In the glint of moonlight, Draco could just make out Potter’s stern face. “At the end, you always wobble. You pull your arm away. If you’d just lay down, you could hold still long enough for me to erase everything.”

Draco did not want to lay down. Absolutely not. It felt incredibly foolish to put himself in such a vulnerable position in the forest, where anything could creep up on them at any time. But he was with Potter, he told himself. Surely, if anyone could keep him safe, it was the Chosen One. Grumbling, Draco stretched out onto the blanket Potter had conjured, shoving the pillow under his head.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

Draco glared as he offered his arm. Sitting cross-legged next to him, Potter seemed not to notice his irritation. Instead, he gently took Draco’s arm and set it across his knee. Pushing up his sleeve, he said, “How does it feel? Any different?”

“It sort of…stings. Since last time.”

“Yeah. That’s normal, I think.” Potter was pushing his thumb into Draco’s skin. He winced as a sharp throb of pain spread from his Mark into his wrist. Before Potter could see his face, Draco turned away, studying the enormous oak towering above them. The breeze was cool enough that he had worn his winter cloak. As Potter examined him, he tried to quiet the overwhelming urge to push him away. Finally, he placed the tip of his wand on Draco’s forearm.

“I’m going to try to go deeper, if I can. It might hurt.”

“Fine.”

Potter rearranged himself, and then took a deep breath. “Three…two…one…”

_They were in his parents’ bedroom. His mother was huddled into an armchair, her face unimaginably pale, her eyes red-rimmed. His father was pacing, stopping every so often to touch her shoulder._

_“He wants him_ dead _, Lucius,” his mother said, squeezing her eyes shut. “Dead.”_

_“We need to stay calm,” his father said. And yet his movements were erratic, agitated, fear written all over his face. And at the sight of his parents panicking, Draco, too, was frightened._

_“I want to join,” he said to his mother, not believing himself at all._

_“You don’t know what you’re saying,” his mother hissed. “You’re a_ boy. _You have no idea what it will do to you, joining him.”_

_“You can’t say these things, Narcissa. Not while he’s in the house.”_

_“You think I care, anymore, what he thinks?” Her face was as cold as Draco had ever seen it. “My son is going to die. You think I care what he does with me?”_

_“He’s not going to die,” his father snapped. “Draco is valuable to him, important…he needs eyes and ears in Hogwarts…”_

_“I have no choice,” Draco said, coming forward to sit on the edge of his chair. “You know I have no choice, Mother.”_

_“Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?” she asked, her voice breaking. “I asked you to, begged you to. You’re too young. You could have gone abroad, before he came back...”_

_“What’s done is done,” his father said wearily._

_“None of the others have had their children Marked!” Suddenly, his mother was on her feet, face red and twisted in anger. “So why ours? Why my son? Why my only son?”_

_“He can use Draco. We’ll be rewarded.”_

_Draco had never felt so defeated, so tired, as he did when his mother gazed down at him with a look of betrayal on her face. “I’m surrounded,” she whispered, “by foolish, stubborn men.”_

He gasped as the edges of his mother’s face blurred together. The bedroom slipped away, fading into a murky fog until suddenly Draco was hit by the crisp autumn air. He willed himself to take several deep breaths. Potter was next to him, muttering something he couldn’t hear. As the memory seeped away, he was overcome by a grief so strong that he thought he might cry. Bringing his hands up to cover his face, he turned away from Potter until he got a hold of himself.

Desperate to break the silence between them, Draco managed to ask, “How does it look?”

“What?” Potter hesitated, and then, “Oh. Right.” Draco winced as warm fingers brushed against his Mark. “I think…I think it’s better. It’s working. But are you…is everything…?”

Draco grunted and took his arm away. He was too vulnerable, laying on his back with his Mark exposed. Ignoring Potter’s protests, he pushed himself up. The vague shapes of the trees around them spun.

“Give yourself a minute,” Potter said, clasping his shoulder.

“M’fine.” Draco rubbed at his eyes, urging his vision to sort itself out. He was grateful that they met outdoors—the night air suppressed the ripples quaking through his stomach, threatening to expel what little he had eaten for dinner.

“That was good,” Potter muttered. “Really good. I got everything, that time.”

“Yeah.” Draco strained to recall the memory that had just been wiped. If he really concentrated, he could just make out his mother’s angry, beautiful, tormented face, asking him why—

He felt Potter’s hand on his back as he leaned over the blanket to retch. Dry heaves racked him, accompanied by a dull, aching pain in his Mark.

“Easy, Malfoy.”

He was exhausted. In that moment, he felt as though he might not even be able to make it back to the castle. How easy it would be to just lay down and melt into the dark forest. To fall asleep and wait until some creature found him. Or perhaps the forest would claim him as its own. Maybe the ground would swallow him up and allow him to finally forget. These thoughts—nebulous, unformed, loose tendrils floating through one another—circled his mind as he forced himself to breathe.

“You should rest.”

“No.” To prove his point, Draco pushed himself to his feet.

“Put your arm around my shoulder, here,” Potter said, coming to support him.

“ _Don’t._ ” If he had been stronger, he would have reached for his wand. Instead, feeling rather pathetic, Draco could do little else than scowl at Potter before staggering towards the castle, gripping his Mark.

***

His mother always wrote on Thursdays. Draco skipped breakfast and went directly to Potions, but it made little difference: her eagle owl found him on his way to Herbology later that afternoon.

“Smart bird, isn’t he?” Pansy said, shading her eyes to watch as the enormous owl fluttered up to the West Tower.

Draco grunted in agreement.

“What are you doing?” Pansy asked, watching as he crumpled the parchment in his fist and shoved it into his pocket.

“I’ll read it later.”

Pansy looked skeptical. “Really? She probably misses you, you know.”

“Let him be,” Blaise drawled. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

They continued down the path, his mother’s letter burning a hole in Draco’s pocket. Every time he thought of her, a great surge of guilt crashed through him. The problem was, he already had so much to be remorseful for. Soon, he feared, he would grow numb to the guilt.

They met Sprout and the other students by the Quidditch Pitch. Instead of teaching the eighth years inside the greenhouses, Sprout had them identifying native plants, herbs, and trees growing across the grounds. Potter, Draco noted, was speaking quietly with Granger and Weasley, turned away from the rest of the group. It was increasingly odd, seeing Potter in class. He wondered whether Potter’s friends knew that he was helping Draco erase his Mark—if they cared, if they told him not to bother. Granger hardly looked his way anymore, though Weasley could still be counted on to glare whenever they passed each other. For some reason, the thought of Potter’s friends knowing about their meetups irritated him. It was private. They shouldn’t know. But then, what did it matter? Annoyed with himself, Draco tried to focus on what Sprout was saying.

“Check your lists carefully,” Sprout said as they took out their sketchbooks. “Some of these plants will go dormant in the winter. You’ll want to be organized so that you don’t miss any of them.”

“We still need to do thistle,” Blaise said, flipping through his book. “It’s done flowering soon.”

Draco nodded in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. “There’s loads over this way. Come on.”

They traipsed down the sloping lawn. Along the edge of the forest there grew an assortment of plants. Mixed among the brush, thistle was easy enough to spot: the winged stems fluttered above most of the weeds. Their feet crunched through the fallen leaves as they edged closer. Avoiding the prickliest shrubs, they picked their way through until they found a particularly long stem topped with a magenta bloom.

“Here, I’ll clear some of this,” Blaise said, reaching for his wand.

“Don’t,” Draco warned him. “Sprout will have your head.”

“They’re just weeds,” Blaise moaned, although he relented. They sat together on the grass, Pansy shrieking as a large beetle flew at her face.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Draco scoffed, waving the insect away. “Are you a witch or not?”

“Why can’t we just be in the greenhouses like normal?” Pansy snapped, pushing her hair out of her face. “This is so stupid.”

Although he hummed in agreement, privately, Draco didn’t mind—it was nice being outdoors. Sketching required just enough concentration that his mind didn’t wander. The breeze soothed him as it grazed across his cheeks, lifting the edges of his collar, flitting through his hair. Once, Pansy jerked her leg up violently, convinced that another bug had attacked her. But otherwise, they were undisturbed. Draco’s drawing came together quickly enough—he labeled the rounded rosette, the flowering stem, and the taproot that he imagined burrowing deep into the ground.

“Draco,” Pansy said suddenly. He jumped at the sound of her voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Alright.”

She bent forward to examine her sketch. “You’re going to get angry. I already know.”

“Then don’t ask,” Draco said. Blaise snorted.

Ignoring them, Pansy said, “What happened at the Manor? With…with Potter. And his friends.”

Something bitter curled up in his stomach. “Check the _Prophet_. It’s all in there.”

“Not really. It says Potter and his friends were brought to the Manor, and you spared them. But how?”

Draco looked up to see Blaise and Pansy staring at him. Irritated now, he rolled his eyes. “What difference does it make?”

“I just want to know,” she said.

“I did nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Draco’s hand was shaking—his quill snapped as he tried to draw a tiny, spined leaf.

“You must have,” Pansy insisted. “Why else would they have let you off?”

“Potter testified for him,” Blaise said quietly. “At his trial.”

“I _know_ that. But what did Potter _say_?”

Before he could stop himself, Draco flung his broken quill onto his sketchbook and snarled, “It’s none of your fucking business.”

They gaped at him in disbelief. Instantly, he was ashamed of himself. But the shame mixed with indignation—why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why did they care what had happened at the Manor? What did it matter to them? And why were they constantly nagging him?

Blaise recovered before Pansy did. “What’s your problem?” he growled.

But Draco could hardly hear him. There was an awful roaring sound in his ears as the scene flashed before him—Granger screeching as his aunt ripped back her hair…Potter blinking up at him, face swollen and almost unrecognizable…his parents’ wild eyes, urging him to do the right thing, incapable of telling him what the right thing _was_ …

The cool autumn air hit his face like a slap. Draco looked down and saw that he had ripped off the corner of his sketch. Pansy was saying something in a worried voice, but he ignored her, his vision swimming as he barely managed to stuff his sketchbook into his bag before pushing off the ground. He felt Pansy’s fingers touch his, but he yanked his hand away from hers, terrified. He needed to get back to the castle. He stumbled forward, nearly tripping in the brush. He needed to forget. All of it. He couldn’t bear to remember. He couldn’t bear to relive it. It had been awful enough the first time. He would go mad, he thought, if he couldn’t forget.

***

Draco was still shaky by the time he met Potter at the edge of the forest, but he categorically refused to skip their meeting. He thought perhaps Potter could see the trepidation on his face—as they wove through the trees, he looked as though he wanted to say something. Silently, Draco urged him not to. He was still stewing in shame from having shouted at Pansy; he didn’t think he could bear the guilt of yelling at Potter, too. Mercifully, he stayed quiet as they reached their little clearing, conjuring a crimson blanket and pillow as Draco set down his bag. They took up their usual positions.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Fine.”

Where was this Potter, he wondered, outside of the forest? During the day, he was as infuriating as ever, talking loudly with Weasley and regularly showing off in Defence. Diggle, their new teacher, was maddeningly breathless around Potter, squeaking in excitement whenever he so much as showed up for class. But now, as he examined Draco’s Mark, Potter’s face was thoughtful. When he turned Draco’s arm, he did so gently, tracing his fingers across the Mark so softly that it almost tickled. Potter must have felt Draco’s eyes on him—he looked up before Draco could turn away. Embarrassed, Draco frowned at him. He couldn’t think of what to say.

“Ready?” Potter asked, taking out his wand. Draco nodded, settling his head onto the pillow and closing his eyes. “Three…two…one…”

_Hidden amongst the towering mountains of rubbish, Draco tapped on the cabinet with his wand. Nothing. He consulted the book one more time—it was an ancient, leather-bound tome he had taken from the Restricted Section. He tore out a page and placed it in the cabinet, closing the door carefully. After a few moments, he held his breath and opened the door. The page was still there, unmoved, unchanged. His stomach clenched painfully as he realized that the old reparation spell hadn’t worked. Panicked, he flipped through the book. He was hot, sweaty, fidgety. He had already been in the room too long; he had Transfiguration in less than ten minutes, and he needed to make some effort to attend his classes. But the spell should have worked. Why hadn’t it worked? Suddenly, his Mark burned painfully—Draco gasped and dropped the book, groaning as he clutched his arm. Did the Dark Lord know? Surely not. There was no way. He couldn’t know of Draco’s failure, because that would mean…that would mean…_

“Stay still,” Potter murmured, pressing his wand deep into Draco’s skin. His Mark absolutely ached. As best he could, Draco steadied himself, clenching his jaw in a refusal to shout out. Every part of his body was sore, as though his very bones were being pulled taut. Finally, Potter eased off, rubbing the Mark with his thumb as though trying to soothe him.

“Malfoy,” he said quietly. “Look. Look how much it’s gone down.”

Draco didn’t dare believe it. Even in the dark of the forest, it was clear that the skull and snake had turned a dark shade of grey. “It’s lighter,” he breathed. Forgetting the pain, the nausea, he sat up and stared at his arm in awe.

“It’s definitely lighter,” Potter said excitedly. “You can tell clearly, now. It’s working. What does it feel like? The Mark?”

“It’s just…painful. It aches.”

“And it’s ached before, right?”

“I mean…” He gave a shaky sigh. “Sometimes. After he’d call us. Or whenever he was angry.”

“Yeah. My scar…” Draco watched as Potter, apparently out of habit, reached up and touched his fringe. “It hurt, whenever he was mad. I always knew.”

“Yeah.”

“This is…” Potter’s bright green eyes met his, vivid as ever. “This is good, right? This is really, really good. How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Can you remember? The memory?”

Draco lay back onto the blanket, drained. He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think. “Not really. Something about…sixth year. But I don’t know what.”

They were quiet for a moment, Draco looking up at the canopy above them, Potter still studying the Mark. “Is it weird?” Potter asked. He spoke so quietly that Draco almost didn’t hear him. “Not being able to remember?”

“Er…” He didn’t know how to answer. “Not really.”

“Are there blank spots in your memory, now? What’s it like?”

Draco was uncomfortable. He had no idea why Potter was suddenly so talkative. “It’s just…it’s like when there’s something on the tip of your tongue. And the harder you try to remember, the faster it just…it just sort of…”

“Fades away?”

“I guess so.” Draco looked up at him. “Still don’t want to try it again?”

Potter shook his head.

“Any particular reason?”

Potter shrugged. “Not really. But anyway, you should take a few days off to rest. We’ve done loads. And it’s working—there’s no reason to rush.”

“No. I’m fine.” Draco sat up, alarmed. “I’m fine, Potter. Let’s just get this over with. And then it’s done.”

Potter looked ready to argue, but Draco was already standing up. Wobbly, he took a moment to gather himself. He felt Potter at his side, felt his hand on his back, but he shrugged him off. “See you,” he said, grabbing his satchel and hurrying out of the clearing.

***

“Coming to Hogsmeade tonight, Draco?” Pansy asked him, flipping through the _Daily Prophet._

“Probably not.” Draco turned his cup of tea in his hands. The warmth was soothing against his palms. Pansy had pushed a bowl of oatmeal towards him, but it sat untouched, growing cold.

Pansy sighed impatiently. “Theo’s coming. I told him I’d try to get you to go.”

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

“That’s not true at all,” she said. “He wants to know your predictions for Puddlemere.”

“I told him in my last letter.” Draco took another sip of tea and then added, “The Harpies are the ones to look out for this year.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy snapped. “He just wants to see you, that’s all. Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

Draco didn’t know how to answer. In truth, he was grateful that Pansy and Blaise had decided to overlook his last outburst, and so he shoved down his irritation and shrugged.

Looking over at him, Pansy took on a softer tone as she said, “It’s just for a few hours. It’ll be nice. Like old times.”

“Yeah.” That was the trouble, he thought to himself—he didn’t want to relive old times. Not at all. The past could stay buried in the past, as far as he was concerned.

“The thing is,” Pansy said, turning back to her paper, “I think he wants to know if you’ll go with him, sometime.”

“Go with him where?”

“You know.” She cleared her throat. “To see your father.”

“Is that what this is?” he demanded, glaring at her. “You’re just trying to corner me?”

“What?” Draco felt a bit guilty when Pansy turned to him, surprised. “Of course not. Since when have you been so paranoid?”

“You’d be paranoid, too, if you’d spent the last three years in a house full of Death Eaters, and…and…” His anger fizzled out and came to be replaced with a dull sense of misery. “You know.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But nobody’s cornering you.”

“If you say so.”

Pansy opened her mouth to respond, but she was interrupted by Blaise’s sudden arrival. They shifted over to make room for him as he squeezed onto the bench.

“You’re cutting it close,” Pansy said mildly, passing him the kettle.

“Yeah…caught up with, well, anyway…” Blaise smirked to himself and reached for a cup. “What’s the plan for this morning?”

All three of them had a free period, and Draco planned to take full advantage. “I’ve got that stupid Charms essay,” he said. “I’ve barely even started.”

“How can that be?” Pansy asked him, startled. “You’ve been working on it all week.”

“I know. I can’t seem to finish it, though.”

“Copy off mine,” Blaise said, reaching over to snag the Sports section from Pansy’s _Prophet._ “Have a look at Limus’ column on changes in the Ministry, Pansy, it’s quite good.”

Undeterred, Pansy said, “Draco, you need to finish that essay. And we’ve still got loads to do for Sprout.”

“We’ll work on that this weekend,” Blaise said placidly. “Give him a break, Pansy, the year’s only just started.”

“But it’s important. Draco, if you don’t study—”

Draco already knew what she was going to say; he had listened to this lecture three times already. “Don’t,” he warned her. “Please. I know. It’s just one paper for Charms, Pansy. I’ll get it done.”

But it wasn’t just his Charms essay giving him trouble. After breakfast, he dutifully followed Pansy and Blaise to the library. There, he pretended to focus on his textbook, reading the same line over and over. It wasn’t only that he couldn’t focus—he couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew, rationally, that he needed to do well on his N.E.W.T.s. He couldn’t rely on his family name anymore, nor his father’s connections. But every time he sat down to study, it was as though his limbs were too heavy to lift. He quickly grew tired, irritable, restless. The logical part of his mind, screaming at him about the importance of his N.E.W.T.s, was always replaced by a sluggish voice questioning whether any of this really mattered, and, even if it did, drenching him in a strange sense of languor from which he couldn’t seem to emerge. It was as though he was in a constant battle with himself, and he was losing spectacularly.

As they broke for lunch, Draco caught sight of Potter on the way to the Great Hall. He was flanked by Weasley and Granger; Draco couldn’t think of any way to get his attention other than bumping their shoulders together roughly as he walked by.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Weasley spat.

Potter stared at him, eyes wide in surprise. Not knowing how to ask him for a private word, Draco ignored Weasley and Granger’s angry faces and whispered, “We have to skip tonight. I’m going to Hogsmeade.”

“Yeah, alright,” Potter said, complacent as ever.

Draco wanted to say more, wanted to push Potter into _some_ kind of a reaction, but Blaise and Pansy were now looking back for him. He shot Potter one last frown before pushing past him.

***

By the time they left the castle for Hogsmeade, Draco was in a foul mood. He had made no progress at all on his essay, and although he had read though the chapter again, he hadn’t retained much at all.

“Draco,” Blaise said as they made their way up the path. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

He loathed the way his friends walked on eggshells around him these days. And, in turn, he hated himself, because he knew it was his own fits of anger that caused their apprehension. “Yeah?”

“Why haven’t you tried out for the Quidditch team this year?”

Pansy glanced up at him briefly and then looked away, as though checking to see whether he was going to lash out. Forcing himself to speak in a light, cheerful tone that instantly repulsed him, Draco said, “Oh. I don’t know. Too busy for Quidditch, I guess.”

“It’s a shame,” Blaise said, sighing dramatically. “Slytherin are going to be absolute rubbish without you.”

“Harper’s fine.”

“We don’t stand a chance against Gryffindor,” he went on. “Pansy and I went down to the pitch, to watch their tryouts. They’re going to flatten everyone. Potter, he…” Blaise took a moment to steady himself before admitting, “He can really fly.”

“Potter’s playing this year?” Draco asked, curious in spite of himself.

“Of course he is,” Pansy said, surprised. “He’s their captain, Draco.”

“He is? He never mentioned it.” Too late, Draco realized what he had said.

Pansy and Blaise exchanged a curious look. There was an awkward pause, and then Blaise said, “But why would he? You two never talk.”

“I know,” Draco agreed. “He just…he likes to show off, doesn’t he, Potter?”

Pansy sighed, looping her arm around Draco’s. “Are you planning to act oddly all year, Draco? Or only just this term?”

The Three Broomsticks was busy, but they spotted Theo right away. He stood as Pansy rushed towards him, flinging her arms around his neck. Something about the pub made Draco instantly uncomfortable—perhaps the hot, stuffy air, or the noise, or the press of bodies against his as he waded towards Theo’s table near the bar.

“Alright, Blaise? Draco?” Theo reached out and clasped their hands. The sight of him was startling: the last time they had seen each other was over the summer, as Draco attended his own hearings and Theo accompanied his father to his. He had been thin and gaunt back then. But now, he greeted them with an easy smile. Tall as ever, he stooped down to kiss Pansy’s cheek before pulling out a chair for her.

“How are you?” Pansy asked excitedly. “You look great!” Turning to Blaise and Draco, she said, “Doesn’t he look great?”

They nodded in agreement. Gesturing to the four firewhiskies already on the table, Theo said, “I thought I’d get us started.”

“Cheers,” Blaise said happily, tipping his bottle towards Theo before taking a swig.

“Tell us about the Ministry,” Pansy said. “How has it been? What is it like? Is it as boring as it sounds?”

“Boring?” Theo laughed, shaking his head. “Not at all. I mean, there’s a lot of paperwork, sorting out everyone’s Floo. We were really jammed before term started—loads of people trying to get to Diagon Alley, you know, for school supplies.”

“And what about your boss? Is she still awful?”

“Edgecombe?” He shrugged, taking a sip of firewhisky. “She’s alright. Still gets on my nerves. But she’s been gone for a while. Something went wrong near Rossendale…a bunch of networks got crisscrossed, or something. So she hasn’t really been around that much.” Pansy opened her mouth to ask him something else, but he looked around at Draco and Blaise. “And what about you lot, then? How’s Hogwarts?”

“Boring,” Blaise sneered, sitting back in his chair. “Loads of people didn’t come back for their eighth year.”

“Yeah, I see a lot of them at the Ministry.” Theo held out his hand and started to count on his fingers. “Daphne’s over at the Portkey Office, so I see her all the time…Millicent was on the Pest Advisory Board, dunno what happened to her…or maybe I just haven’t seen her around…and then there’s one of the Patil twins, working in the Foreign Affairs Office…I still haven’t sorted if she’s Padma or Parvati…”

“Parvati,” Pansy said promptly. “Padma’s at Hogwarts with us.”

“Thanks,” Theo said, grinning. “It was getting old, calling her ‘Patil’ whenever I saw her.”

“Wasn’t Terry Boot working with you for a bit?” Blaise asked.

“He was, yeah,” said Theo, counting off another finger. “He’s in the D.M.A.C. now, though.”

“D.M.A.C.?” Pansy asked.

“Sorry—Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“You’re so clever, Theo!” Pansy gushed. She sounded very much as though she was speaking to a precocious toddler. “Look at you! You’re a real Ministry employee now, aren’t you?”

As Blaise and Draco sniggered, Theo rubbed the back of his neck. “Er, yeah. I guess I am.”

“Don’t miss Hogwarts, then?” Blaise asked him.

Theo shook his head. “No, not at all. Lots of people only have their O.W.L.s, and anyway, with the partial credits we got…” Catching sight of the look on Pansy’s face, he said hastily, “But you should finish out the year! It’s really important.”

“I’m glad you’re getting on, though,” Pansy said.

“I am, yeah.” Theo hesitated, and then said so softly that they almost couldn’t hear him over the noise in the pub, “You all remember Lavender, right? Lavender Brown?”

As the three of them nodded, Pansy said, “It’s terrible, what happened to her…at the Battle…”

“Yeah. Well, the thing is…” Theo was smiling now. “We’ve started seeing one another.”

Pansy sat up straight in her chair, eyes wide. “ _Lavender Brown_?”

“I know we never talked much at school,” he said quickly. “But she’s…she’s very nice. It took her a while to recover, but now she’s on the Floo panel. We work together.”

At the pained look on Theo’s face, Draco said quietly, “You’ll have to bring her around next time.”

Theo gaped at him.

“Yeah, Theo,” Blaise taunted him. “Hiding your girlfriend from us, are you?”

Theo was positively scarlet as he grinned. “No, no…I just thought, you know, that I should warn you all first…” He looked over at Pansy, who was still staring at him. “She’s…she’s really nice, Pansy.”

“Of course she is,” Pansy said, recovering. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“So was I,” he said, looking relieved. “But once we started working together, we had a chance to talk, you know? She’s really smart, Lavender, and you’d be amazed at how well she’s handled everything—her injury, you know, from…”

“Greyback,” Draco muttered. The name tasted very sour in his mouth.

“That’s right.” Theo shook his head, frowning. “She still has the scars on her face. But she acts as though nothing happened. I wouldn’t be able to just move on, like she does.”

“Theo,” Pansy asked timidly, reaching out to touch his hand. “She doesn’t…she doesn’t turn, does she? Into a…?”

“Oh, no, no,” Theo assured her. “He wasn’t transformed when he bit her.” His face took on an uncharacteristically resolute expression as he said, “But still. It wouldn’t bother me, even if she did.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” Pansy agreed. “I think it’s wonderful, Theo. You’ll have to bring her next time.”

Reassured that Pansy had decided to be reasonable, Draco sunk deeper into his chair, nursing his bottle of firewhisky. The others discussed the upcoming Quidditch season—Lavender, apparently, supported the Wigtown Wanderers, a source of great ire for Theo, a lifelong Puddlemere fan. Although he tried to follow their discussion, Draco found himself overwhelmed by the heat and the loud noise in the pub. He couldn’t help but be relieved when they finally decided to call it a night.

“Draco,” Theo said as Pansy brought their empty bottles to the bar. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Yeah, alright.” He had been expecting this. They made their way out of the pub, Blaise tactfully pretending to be occupied with rebuttoning his cloak.

The crisp night air was refreshing. Draco plunged his hands into his pockets, casting around for something to say before Theo brought up the inevitable. But he couldn’t think of anything.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me next weekend,” Theo said, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. “I’m headed up to Azkaban, to see my father.”

Draco looked at the ground, saying nothing.

“I thought you might want to come. A few weeks ago, Greg and I went together. It really isn’t that bad.”

“How’s Greg doing?” Draco asked suddenly, peering up at him.

“Oh, er…alright.” Taken by surprise, Theo faltered. “He works as a security guard, now.”

“At the Ministry?”

“No, no…St. Mungo’s…some of the patients get a bit, er, rowdy…” There was a moment of silence as Theo considered him. “You should think about coming with us, though. We went for lunch afterwards. I bet he’d really like to see you.”

Personally, Draco doubted that very much, but he didn’t want to crush Theo’s hopes. “Right. Well, I’ll check with my mother. I know she goes sometimes. She might prefer that I go with her instead. So I’ll…I’ll check,” he finished lamely.

“Sure.” Theo looked as though he knew Draco was being evasive, but they were interrupted by Pansy and Blaise, who pushed through the pub door and out into the cold.

“It’s freezing!” Pansy cried, rubbing her arms. “Come on, let’s get back.” She turned to Theo and wrapped him in another hug. As they said their goodbyes, Draco stood off to the side, ill at ease. He thought again about what Theo had said about Greg, and for some reason, he felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t think about Greg without also thinking of Vincent.

Draco knew it was going to happen before it did—there was a roaring sound in his ears, and then he swore he could hear the crackle of Fiendfyre as it screamed at him. He staggered back, but the smell of burning flesh assaulted him…his heart was hammering in his chest…he knew vaguely that he had fallen onto the cold pavement but that didn’t matter, what mattered were Vincent’s agonizing shrieks as he burned alive…no human should ever make that noise…it was less than human, beyond human, it was insufferable and it just went on and on and on…

“Draco? Draco! My God. What’s wrong with him? Go get Madam Rosmerta, Blaise, go ask for help!”

“No,” Draco said groggily. He forced himself up and tried to ignore the sharp stab of pain in his shoulder. “I’m fine. I drank too much, that’s all.”

“You had _one_ firewhisky,” Pansy said. Her voice was loud, far too loud. It rang in his ears as he tried to sit up.

“Take it easy, Draco,” Blaise muttered. As their faces came into focus, Draco winced. All three of them looked terrified.

“I’m fine. Just a dizzy spell.” He looked up at Blaise, begging him to cooperate. “Help me up, will you?”

As he struggled to his feet, Draco prayed that the others wouldn’t notice the trembling in his hands, the wobbling in his knees. His heart was beating so fast he worried they might be able to hear it.

“Mate, I hope I didn’t upset you,” Theo said nervously.

Draco shook his head, but that only caused him to feel even more nauseous. “S’not you,” he croaked. “Just tired.”

“Let’s get him back to the castle,” Blaise said, supporting Draco as they started to hobble down the street.

“I’ll write to you, Theo!” Pansy said, giving him one last hug before scurrying after them. Draco was utterly humiliated as they limped along in silence. He needed to get a hold of himself. Loads of other people had suffered during the war, during the Battle, but they weren’t fainting in front of the Three Broomsticks. His work with Potter had never seemed so important.

***

“You didn’t tell me you were Quidditch captain this year,” Draco said from his spot on the blanket.

Potter shrugged. “You never asked.” He reached towards Draco’s arm. “I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Turning his head away as Potter rolled up his sleeve, Draco told himself to let it go. But some stupid, stubborn part of him persisted. “How’s your team?’

“Alright. Ginny’s brilliant as Chaser.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Ron’s playing Keeper again.” Potter held up a hand before Draco had a chance to respond. “Whatever you have to say about him, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Draco grumbled. After a moment, he asked, “And you’re playing Seeker, then?”

“Right.” If Potter thought his questions were odd, he didn’t show it; he had taken out his wand and was tracing the outlines of Draco’s Mark.

“First match is Gryffindor against Slytherin,” Draco said evenly.

“Slytherin have no chance.”

Draco made to push himself up—the logical side of him knew that House divisions and the Quidditch Cup didn’t really matter, anyway, but he was almost excited to slip into these antagonistic roles—when Potter cut him off. “I mean, you’re not playing, right? You were probably their only hope.”

The breath he had been angrily holding rushed out of him. He gawked stupidly at Potter, not knowing what to say. Oblivious, Potter rubbed his thumb one last time on Draco’s forearm and then readjusted his wand. “Right. Ready?”

He was never ready, not really, but he would never admit it. Still baffled, Draco settled onto the pillow, turning to face the giant oak tree. His Mark throbbed as Potter twisted the tip of his wind into his skin.

“Alright, here we go. Three…two…one…”

_He was about to drop at any moment. The corners of his vision blurred. The room around him swam—murky, unclear, out of focus. Every last one of his nerves was on fire. He had felt pain before, but never this deep, ripping agony that splintered his very core. He blinked slowly, turning his head, and he could just make out his father’s grim face. His father who, he knew, was absolutely no use to him now. In his shock, he thought numbly to himself that other fathers might have run forward, might have raged, might have protected their child whatever the cost. But his father stood out of the way, as though hoping he wouldn’t be seen._

_Just as the ringing in his ears began to fade, he heard the Dark Lord’s high, cruel voice. “Up, Draco. Get up.” He couldn’t get up. There was no way. If he did, he would fall, and that would only earn him further punishment. But what if he didn’t try? Would the Dark Lord kill him for his disobedience? It wouldn’t be so bad, though, dying…if he died, the pain would end, and that thought was comforting enough to keep him on the floor a few moments longer, until he heard the Dark Lord call him again._

_“Up, I said.” Sterner this time. Harsher. Draco forced himself up onto his knees, and then his feet. Swaying, he turned to face the Dark Lord, who sat in his armchair, Nagini at his side._

_“You_ will _do what I’ve asked, Draco,” he said softly. “Or you’ll find that tonight, I’ve been very merciful indeed.”_

_He couldn’t. He had tried and failed. He had to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. As he floundered, the Dark Lord raised his wand again, and he braced himself, knees already buckling—_

Draco shouted as he stumbled out of his memories. Potter was holding his arm, urging him to stay still, but the pain in his Mark was unbearable. He trashed, yelling out; his arm felt as though it would rip in two. Finally, the ice-hot pain tapered off, and Potter was muttering in a soothing tone, rubbing his shoulder as Draco covered his face with his free hand.

“I’m here, I’m here,” said Potter, still digging his wand into the Mark. “Just about done.”

There were tears coursing down his face, he realized—he could taste the salt on his lips. But the anguish emanating from his arm, pulsing through his body, was so acute that it drowned out any embarrassment he might have felt.

“Done,” Potter said, massaging Draco’s forearm. “What’s wrong? It hurts?”

“Yeah,” he said through gritted teeth. He pulled his arm away and rubbed at his Mark.

“Malfoy.”

Draco looked up in surprise; if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn Potter sounded scared. In the dark, his face was pale, his eyes wide.

“What is it?”

“Your…” Potter faltered.

“My what?” he snapped. “My Mark?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Your memory. The one we just saw. Can you remember it at all?”

Draco pushed the hair out of his face. His ears were ringing. If he really focused, he could just make out his father’s grey eyes staring down at him. But that was it.

“Not really. I can sort of remember my father. We were at the Manor, I think. Why?”

“Forget it,” Potter said quickly, pocketing his wand.

“Tell me. Was it bad? Was it…was Macnair there?”

“Macnair?” Potter asked, grimacing. “No. Never mind. It isn’t important. You don’t remember, anyway.”

“I guess.” Draco was very much aware of the way Potter studied him. Uneasy and looking to get away from Potter’s gaze, he sat up. He wasn’t as nauseous as he had been last time, but he was exhausted. It was as though that memory had sucked out every bit of strength he had left. Worse still, he felt the beginnings of a headache tightening in his temples.

“Your Mark?”

Draco looked down. The Mark might have been a bit paler than before, but it was hard to tell. “About the same.”

Potter was already standing, used to their routine by now. When Draco remained on the blanket, cradling his head in his hands, he could feel Potter dawdling.

 _‘Go, just go,’_ he urged him silently.

“Are you coming?”

“Give me a second.” He dug his palms into his temples, telling himself that he would feel better in a minute.

Potter crouched down next to him, trying to catch sight of his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “Just give me a second. My head’s killing me.”

“Sure,” Potter said, startled. “I just figured, you’re always so quick to get back…”

Draco doubted very much that he would be able to make the trek to the castle in this state. He barely had the energy to sit up. Annoyed, he growled, “Just go, Potter. I’m fine. I’ll catch up.”

“Are you mad? I’m not leaving you in the forest alone. Not when you can’t even stand.”

“Why do we have to come all the way here, anyway?” Draco demanded, squinting up at him. “We couldn’t just find an empty classroom?”

“This is where Hermione and I started it,” Potter said, still crouched down next to him.

“Oh, yes, what a great spot you’ve chosen,” he drawled.

Potter wavered, and then said, “This is where Voldemort killed me. Or tried to, anyway.”

Draco pulled his hands away from his face to look at Potter properly. On top of everything else—the aching remnants of pain, the first pulls of a headache, the nausea twisting his stomach, and the very odd sense that he had forgotten another important memory—he was now overwhelmed with a deluge of shame. “Right,” he said awkwardly.

“I’m not trying to make it weird,” Potter said. “I just…yeah. We thought it might help, to come here. Where the part of him in me, where it died.”

“Right.”

“And, er, I couldn’t really think of anywhere else. And maybe it…I dunno.” Potter sighed. “This is really experimental. So I thought it might be important, to do it here.”

“Right.” He was beginning to sound like a broken record.

“We’ll use an empty classroom next time,” Potter offered.

“No.” At the surprised look on Potter’s face, he said, “It’s working. I can’t afford to mess it up. We shouldn’t change anything, just in case.”

“Alright then,” Potter said slowly, scrutinizing him. Draco absolutely hated it when Potter analyzed him like that. He wanted to get back to his dormitory, to sink into his warm blankets and _forget_ , but his legs still felt heavy, his arms stiff.

“Tell me about Quidditch,” Draco said. He turned and stared resolutely at the oak tree.

There was a long, pregnant pause, and Draco thought Potter was about to leave him in the forest. Instead, he sat on the blanket, exhaling deeply. “Well. That’s a whole thing. Ginny’s fine, she’s always been great.” Something strange prickled in Draco’s chest—cross, he shoved it away. “Ron’s alright. He’s a lot more confident this year. And then, er, my Beaters…they’re the main problem.”

Draco tipped his head back, taking in the cool breeze. “Why?”

“Well, Peakes is strong, but his aim’s been off. And Coote…he’s got himself a girlfriend this year, so he’s always late to practice. And then they fight over that. It’s a big mess.”

“And your other Chasers?”

“Robins. She was a great find. McDonald, not sure if you know her…” When Draco shook his head, Potter said, “She’s good. Needs a bit of work. But she’s really keen.”

They were quiet for a moment. He watched as Potter ripped little tufts of grass from the ground. Finally, Draco said, “And then there’s your Seeker.”

“Yeah. I heard he’s a real prat.”

Draco sniggered despite himself. As Potter snorted, it occurred to him that they were having a laugh together. Sort of. It was a sobering thought.

“And why are you so interested in my Quidditch team all of a sudden?” Potter asked him. Even as his eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth was twitching. “Going to run back to the Slytherin team with all our secrets, huh?”

“Oh, yes, Potter,” he scoffed. “Finally, you’ve uncovered my ruse.” Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to his feet, waving Potter away as he leaned forward to help. “I don’t really care much about Quidditch this year, anyway.”

“But you’ll be at the game?” Potter asked, rising up next to him.

“What?”

“Gryffindor versus Slytherin. You’ll be there to support Slytherin, won’t you?”

Taken aback at the serious look on Potter’s face, Draco shrugged. “I guess.”

He waited, wrapping his arms around himself, as Potter Vanished the blanket and pillow. They gathered their things and then walked back to the castle together. Neither of them said anything, but Draco thought it wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. And, as his Mark continued to throb, he was forced to admit that Potter’s presence at his side was reassuring. They understood each other, in a very odd sort of way.

***

All day Sunday, Pansy was unbearable. First, she nattered on about Theo and Lavender Brown, absolutely convinced that Blaise and Draco must have more details. They didn’t, of course, but that didn’t stop her from pestering them. These concerns were quickly dismissed, however, when she realized around lunchtime that she had misplaced her Transfiguration essay, sending her into a panic as she ripped her room apart. Draco tried reasoning with her—“If you’ve tried _Accio_ it’s not coming, you must have tossed it somehow, or ruined it”—but she wouldn’t listen. It wasn’t until three that she finally relented and followed them out to the grounds to continue their sketches for Herbology.

“You can copy from mine, Pansy, it’s not a big deal,” Blaise said, exasperated. “People lose things all the time.”

“I don’t!” she said shrilly. “You two are positive you didn’t take it? This isn’t a joke?”

“Positive,” Draco said. He wanted to snap at her—she, of all people, had accused _him_ of being paranoid just the other day—but he was still guilty from the last time he had lost his temper at her. Instead, he said, “That paper isn’t due for another week. You’ve got plenty of time. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Oh, piss off,” she groused, crossing her arms against the cold as they made their way down the path.

“Let’s go to the lake,” Blaise said, consulting his list. “We still need to do bearberries.”

They found a mat of bearberry shrubs easily enough. Blaise conjured three pillows and they sat in the grass together, pulling out their sketchbooks. Draco felt a fresh wave of guilt when he spotted the torn corner of his thistle drawing. Ashamed, he turned the page, hoping the other two hadn’t noticed. They sketched quietly, the silence broken only by the sound of dry leaves as the wind swept through. It was a beautiful autumn day: the sky was blue, dotted with thin, snaky clouds. Draco sketched the little red berries as they jostled together in the breeze.

“What are they used for, again?” Pansy muttered.

Blaise leaned over, consulting his textbook. “Bladder and urinary tract infections.”

“Lovely,” Pansy said drily. Draco couldn’t help but laugh.

“Stomach problems, too. And wound healing.”

Draco held out his sketchbook, eyeing his drawing critically. His leaves were a bit wonky, he thought. Looking over at Blaise’s work, though, he decided he was happy enough. He set down his sketchbook and allowed himself to stare out at the lake, waiting for the others to finish. Off in the distance, he could see the memorial that had been erected in honour of those who had fallen during the last Battle. Engraved into the snowy white obelisk were over fifty names—names that had belonged to his classmates, his professors, his friends. And here he was, sitting outside on a nice autumn day, sketching plants. He felt sick at the thought.

“Draco,” Blaise said from beside him. “Is your arm alright?”

Mortified, Draco realized that he had been gripping his Mark. It ached beneath his sleeve. “Yeah, fine,” he said, bringing his hand to rest on his knee instead.

Pansy was staring at him. “Draco,” she whispered. “Isn’t it…if your Mark hurts, isn’t that usually…?”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said at once.

“But…” He saw Pansy’s eyes flit down to his arm before coming back up to examine his face. She looked terrified. “Why else would it hurt?”

“It’s, er…it’s happened on and off,” Draco lied. “Since he died.”

“Maybe it’s all messed up now, since he’s dead?” Blaise suggested.

“Yeah. Probably. It’s getting better, though.” He felt terrible lying, but his guilt was assuaged as Pansy’s tensed shoulders slowly relaxed.

“You should see Pomfrey,” she advised, returning to her sketch. “Maybe she can do something.”

“It’s alright. As I said, it’s a lot better than it was.”

“I hope you’re right,” Pansy said. Draco’s heart fell as her voice wavered. “Because if he’s back…if he isn’t really gone…”

“Pansy,” Blaise said, reaching out awkwardly to pat her back. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

Draco was torn. He wanted to tell his friends why his Mark hurt, but he couldn’t bear their questions. If he told them he was trying to get rid of the Mark, he would have to explain that he was meeting Potter every night to do so. And for some strange reason, that didn’t sit well with him.

 _‘They’ll just nag me,’_ he told himself. _‘They won’t understand. They’ll think Potter’s up to something.’_

Abandoning his sketchbook, Blaise stretched his arms above his head. After a moment, he said, “I thought that was really decent of you, Draco. The other night, with Theo.”

“I haven’t agreed to go with him to Azkaban, if that’s what you’re on about,” Draco warned him.

Blaise scoffed. “I figured as much. No, I’m talking about his new girlfriend. Lavender Brown.”

“Oh. Er. Right.” Suddenly uncomfortable, Draco picked up his sketchbook and pretended to flip through it.

“He seemed really worried about telling us,” Blaise said.

“I think he was worried about my reaction,” Draco murmured.

“Yeah. But you weren’t…you weren’t lying, were you?”

Draco looked up and saw Blaise and Pansy staring at him. He shook his head. “No. Of course not. Why should I care?”

“At least she’s a pure-blood,” Blaise said, sneering.

Something within Draco snapped. That word. He recoiled, almost physically, at the sound of that word. He swore it made his Mark pulse. Urging himself not to grab it again, he took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably on his pillow. He didn’t know what else to say.

***

It was unseasonably warm out. Potter had pulled off his ratty jumper while Draco cast aside his cloak. As Potter examined his Mark, sliding his thumb along the line demarcating the skull from the snake, he said softly, “It’s fading, along the edges. You can see.”

Draco hadn’t really noticed. Most of the time, he tried to pretend the Mark wasn’t there, looking resolutely away whenever he washed his arm in the shower or dressed himself. But he didn’t want Potter to know that, to think him weak or cowardly, and so he grunted in agreement.

“How are you getting on in your Transfiguration paper?”

Draco was taken off guard by Potter’s question, thrown out as though this was normal for them. As though they regularly discussed their homework, their classes. “Fine,” he said stiffly.

Potter gave him a funny look as he rolled his sleeve up higher, fulling exposing the Mark. “I wonder what that mouse got up to.”

Draco bristled. He didn’t want to discuss it.

“You think it knows it used to be a toad?” Potter asked conversationally.

“How the hell should I know?” Draco snapped, flummoxed. “I don’t think it knows _anything,_ Potter. It’s a mouse.”

“Maybe. You saved it, though. Saved it from being turned back into a toad.” He was grinning widely now as he asked, “You think it’s better to be a mouse than a toad?”

Draco drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. The effect was rather muted, he thought, by his position on the ground with his arm in Potter’s lap. “That has nothing to do with it. Would _you_ want to be stuck in a box all day in McGonagall’s office?”

“I guess not,” Potter said softly, taking out his wand. “I wonder if the owls got to it.”

“Who knows.” He was startled by a little pang of worry, but he tried not to dwell on it. “Anyway, let’s get started.”

“Yeah.” Draco winced as he felt the by-now familiar press of Potter’s wand against his skin. “Three…two…one…”

 _He thought his heart might explode, it was beating so fast. His father had been in the drawing room with the Dark Lord for hours. It was awful, being alone in the Manor on the night of a meeting—the other Death Eaters leered at him. Greyback was always too close for comfort, flashing awful smiles that caused his stomach to twist in fear. Even though Draco’s father had fallen from the Dark Lord’s favour, he still offered_ some _protection. And so did Severus, but he hadn’t arrived, yet. Without them, Draco felt very much exposed. He sat in an armchair by the empty hearth, back straight, nose raised in as haughty a manner as he could manage. His mask nearly slipped, however, when he saw Macnair striding towards him._

_“Draco,” he said. “Where have you been hiding? I had almost started to think you’d abandoned us.”_

_He recoiled as Macnair came to lean against the back of his armchair. He smelled of tobacco. “I hope your mummy and daddy aren’t locking you up in your room all day. Protective of you, aren’t they?”_

_As surreptitiously as he could, Draco glanced towards the drawing room door. It was still firmly shut._

_Macnair must have noticed, because he laughed and said, “All alone among the wolves, are you? Poor thing.” He came in closer, looking down his long nose as he said, “I could protect you, you know. Your father’s worthless, I’m afraid. But I could keep you safe.”_

_In what he hoped was a smooth, confident voice, Draco said, “I don’t need protecting.”_

_“Don’t you?” Macnair tutted. “And what’s going to happen when you fail, then? You’ll be disposable. Your Master won’t want you anymore. But if you’re mine, if I claim you, surely the Dark Lord will spare you.”_

_“I won’t fail,” Draco snapped. “I’ve already got a plan. You’ll see.”_

_Macnair went on as though he hadn’t heard him. “He’s very pleased with me, right now, the Dark Lord is…I’ve still got the Giants wrapped around my finger.”_

_Draco shifted as far as he could in his seat. Where was Severus? Why hadn’t he arrived yet?_

_“You’ve heard the rumours, I’m sure…of what they plan to do with you, when you fail…Greyback is hopeful, of course. You’ll want to consider my offer very carefully, I imagine.”_

This time, he did retch. Draco just managed to drag himself off the crimson blanket before he vomited into the grass. He hated that Potter was there, and he hated himself for not being able to stop. As dry heaves racked his body, he felt Potter’s hand on his back; he was muttering to him softly, although Draco couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Finally, as the heaving subsided, Draco sat back. Potter cleaned the grass with a sharp flick of his wand. His hand was still on Draco’s shoulder. Feeling foolish, Draco rubbed angrily at the tears in his eyes. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t trust himself to conjure anything.

“Could you—” he croaked, looking over at Potter. His face was pale. Draco swallowed several times, urging himself not to vomit again. “Water.”

“Oh! Right, of course.” Potter conjured a cup and then stuck his wand within its depths. “ _Aguamenti._ ” Draco took the cup gratefully. The cool water soothed his burning throat and settled his stomach.

“Are you alright?”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He held the little tin cup in his lap, examining it.

“That was…” Potter let out a shaky breath. “That was awful.”

“What was it?”

“It was…Macnair.”

Draco froze. Memories rose, unbidden, to the surface; he tried to stop them, but they pushed past his pleas, causing his heart to freeze. “What happened?”

“You were at the Manor. Your father was in another room, with Voldemort. And Macnair came up to you…and he was awful, threatening you, and…” Potter shook his head.

“He did that a lot. I must have dozens of memories.” Draco swallowed thickly. “You think we’ll have to go through all of them?”

“I hope not.” Potter looked down at the Mark; Draco didn’t dare. The sight might make him sick again. “Hermione said we don’t have to see _every_ memory. Just enough to get the whole…the whole web, she called it, to collapse. So hopefully that’s the last of them.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you remember anything at all? I tried to get most of it, but you jumped up…”

Draco shut his eyes. There, on the edges of his consciousness, he thought he could see Macnair’s face, hovering over him. But it was slipping away, like water dribbling through his fingers. And he was grateful for that. “Not really. It’s fading.”

“Good.” Potter cleared his throat. “That’s really good.”

“I don’t want to go through all of it,” Draco said. “But, fuck, I’d like to forget. It might be worth it.”

Potter bit his bottom lip but said nothing. Still queasy, Draco gently lowered himself onto the blanket. “Let me rest here for a minute.”

“Of course.”

The silence stretched between them. Draco did his best to slow his breathing while Potter sat next to him, staring at the ground. It should have been awkward, but Draco was too unsettled to care. As Macnair’s face floated before him, he groaned, squeezing his fists. “Don’t want to puke again.”

“Go ahead. It’s fine.”

Draco shook his head, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “What’s wrong with me?”

“What we saw, it was…it was really bad. I…” In a very quiet voice, Potter said, “I didn’t know.”

“There are plenty of things you don’t know, Potter,” he mumbled.

“Yeah. And I…really, Malfoy, I feel…”

“Oh, don’t start,” he snapped. “I’m already sick as it is. I don’t need your sympathy.”

Potter gave a weak chuckle. After a moment, he said, “Macnair. Did he…what did he do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“And anyway,” Draco said bitterly, “you’ll probably see it.”

“I don’t want to see it,” Potter whispered. There was a pause, and then he said hurriedly: “I mean—that was stupid. Seeing it…it’s nothing, is it, when you actually lived it…”

“You’re fine.” Draco waved his hand, dismissing him. “I don’t want to see it, either.”

 _‘But I’ll have to, in the end, just watch,’_ he thought to himself grimly.

***

Diggle had them learning general defensive spells—Shield Charms, counter-spells, revulsion jinxes. The room was loud with the sounds of students shouting and occasionally falling against desks and chairs. It was too loud, much too loud; a headache had already started to squeeze his head like a vice. The result was that Draco was quite on edge as Blaise continued to fling hexes at him, looking to break through his Shield Charm.

“Nonverbally, if you can, please!” Diggle called out as he paced through the students. He was dressed in the most garish violet robes Draco had ever seen; they clashed terribly with his purple top hat.

Blaise smirked at him. “Go on, then, Draco.”

He had no interest in dueling—still drained from his session with Potter, Draco found it difficult to stop himself from swaying. But he refused to look weak in front of the others. Grimacing, he took a deep breath and then sliced his wand through the air. Blaise repelled his hex easily.

“Oh, very good, Mr. Zabini, very good!” Diggle gasped, clapping his hands. “And nonverbally, too!”

Draco rolled his eyes as Blaise drawled, “Looks like I’ve bested you, Draco.”

“Looks like it,” he said moodily.

Blaise hesitated. “Are you alright? You’re really pale.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “And you still haven’t gotten through my Shield Charm, so I don’t know what you’re boasting about.”

The sneer returned to Blaise’s face. “Let’s try it, then. Ready?” Draco nodded. They paused, waiting for the other to make a move, when Blaise whipped his wand forward. Draco reacted a fraction too late; his wand flew from his hand, soaring towards Blaise. He caught it, grinning slyly.

“What’s happened, Draco?” he taunted. “Starting to slow down in your old age?”

But Draco couldn’t hear him—the noise in the classroom faded as a ringing sound filled his ears. He staggered back. In front of him swam a scene he had mulled over hundreds of times: Potter was ripping the wands out of his hands; Draco barely struggled…and then Greyback was crumpling onto the ground…and then his mother screamed as his aunt threatened Potter and his friends with her knife…

And then Draco was back in Defence, his heart racing so fast he thought it might explode. He had fallen against a desk and was nearly on the floor. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he heard Blaise snap, “It wasn’t me!”

The room swam back into view just as Pansy and Diggle reached his side.

“Draco, are you okay?” Pansy said, grasping his arm. She looked terrified.

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy,” Diggle was tutting. “I warned you not to outdo yourself. This isn’t a Dueling Club, boys.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tripped, that’s all.”

Pansy whispered furiously, “You didn’t just _trip_ , Draco. You nearly passed out.” She was trying to push him into the chair, but he resisted, begging his knees to stop trembling as he stood. The entire class was staring. As Diggle helped him up, Draco found Potter’s face. Unlike the others, his eyes weren’t wide, his jaw wasn’t slack. Instead, he was scowling.

“Off to Madam Pomfrey, I think, Mr. Malfoy,” Diggle said.

“I’m fine,” Draco hissed, pulling his arm away. At the startled look on Diggle’s face, he gritted out, “Sir.”

“Right, well, er…” Diggle looked around, as though hoping someone would tell him what to do next. “What time is it? Oh, my word, look at the time! Off to dinner with you, off you go…and don’t forget that foot of parchment on counter-spells next week!”

As the other students drifted off to pack up their things, Draco wiped his forehead. He was sweating, even though the room was quite cool.

“Draco.” Pansy was glaring at him. “He’s right. You need to see Pomfrey. You _fainted_ , Draco.”

Blaise was now at his side. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said weakly, passing Draco his wand.

“You didn’t do anything,” he grumbled, pocketing his wand. “Can you both drop it? Come on, let’s go to dinner.”

His stomach tightened strangely as he saw Potter striding towards them. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed. There was an awkward silence as they regarded one another. Finally, Potter said, “I need to talk to you.”

Draco looked over at Blaise and Pansy, who were staring at him, confused. Not knowing what else to do, Draco pulled himself together and managed to say, “Go on, then. If it’s that important.”

Pansy wavered for a moment, looking very much as though she wanted to argue. Draco touched her arm, muttering, “It’s fine. I’ll see you at dinner.”

After a moment, Pansy and Blaise finally retreated, shuffling out of the classroom along with the others. Draco wanted badly to sit down—he felt as though he was going to collapse at any second. Instead, he swung his satchel over his shoulder and leaned back onto the desk, forcing his face into what he hoped was a look of detached boredom.

The moment they were alone, Potter asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he sneered. “Worried about me, are you, Potter?”

“Tell me what happened.”

The serious look on his face took Draco by surprise. “Nothing. I tripped, as I keep saying.”

“Anyone with eyes could see you didn’t just _trip_ ,” Potter said sharply. “Is it your Mark?”

Looking down, Draco realized that he had been gripping it again. Irritated with himself, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, glaring at Potter. “It keeps happening. I don’t know what it is. I keep seeing…old memories. It’s as though I’m there, reliving it.”

Potter frowned. “Are your memories coming back?”

“I don’t know!” Draco rubbed his face tiredly. “Just now I saw that time at the Manor, when you took my wand.”

Potter shook his head. “We haven’t erased that one.”

“And what about that time in the…in the room. With Vincent.”

For a second, Draco thought he saw Potter grimace. But then he resumed the neutral expression he usually wore, his features smoothing out easily. “No. We haven’t done that one, either.”

“Then what’s…what’s going on?” Draco asked. “This has never happened before. They’re not just memories—it’s like I’m there again.”

“I keep telling you, we’re doing too much at once,” Potter growled. “You need a break in-between. When Hermione and I—” He broke off and looked away.

“Is this why you stopped?” Draco breathed. “Is this what happens? Your memory is all fucked up and you…you…you go mad?” His heart was racing. What if he never went back to normal? What if his memories continued to haunt him like this, bursting forth so vividly that he couldn’t possibly ignore them?

“No. That’s not why we stopped. I told you, we never got that far.”

“What have you done to me?” Draco pushed off from the desk, forcing himself to stand.

“I haven’t done anything!” Potter said hotly. “It’s just too much at once! Take a few weeks off.”

“I can’t _,_ ” he hissed. “I want this over with. I want this fucking thing gone.”

“You’re mad if you think I’m going to keep meeting you every night, just so you can faint in class. We’ll give it a month.”

“ _A month?_ ” He knew that he was at Potter’s mercy—that he needed to be calm, reasonable. But it was almost impossible to douse the anger swelling up inside him.

“At least.” Potter gave him an appraising look, and then shrugged. “We have all year. I don’t see what the rush is.”

“Potter, no.” Terrified, Draco reached forward to grab his arm. “Please. You can’t. I need to get rid of it. You don’t understand.”

For a moment, Potter said nothing, staring down at Draco’s hand in surprise. Then, finally, he muttered, “I agreed to help you with your Mark. Not to fuck up your memories, or…or whatever else this is.”

“This never happened to you, then?” Draco took his hand away, embarrassed by his outburst.

“No. I’ve told you, we only tried twice.”

“But _why_? Why did you stop?”

“Because. It just didn’t work out. But not because of…” Potter motioned vaguely in Draco’s direction. “Whatever this is.”

“Right. Fine. So maybe it’s like losing a tooth, you know?” When Potter raised his eyebrows, Draco said, “There’s that part in the middle where it really hurts. When it’s just on the verge of falling out, but it hurts every time you touch it. And you just need to rip it out, get it over with.”

Potter shrugged. “I guess.”

“We can’t stop. If you won’t do it, I’ll…I’ll…” He refused to meet Potter’s eyes as he said, “I’ll do it myself. You found that book, where, in the library? I’ll find out how, and I’ll do it on my own.”

There was an awkward silence as Draco looked at the ground. Finally, Potter exhaled wearily. “Fine. Tonight. See you.”

Not quite believing his good luck, Draco glanced up. Potter had an unhappy look on his face, and for a moment Draco felt a twist of guilt in his chest. But he couldn’t just _abandon_ him like this. Not when the Mark was already fading. Potter held his gaze for a moment, frowning, and then strode out of the classroom.

***

“You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

“It always hurts, Potter.”

“If it hurts more than usual.”

“Fine.”

“And if anything strange happens. Anything at all.”

“ _Fine_.”

Draco glared at the enormous oak tree as Potter traced his fingers along the Mark. He took longer than he usually did, pushing Draco’s sleeve up as high as it would go. “Does it hurt now? If I touch it?”

“No.”

“Has anything else happened, since class?”

“No.”

Potter hummed to himself. Slowly, he pressed the tip of his wand into Draco’s arm. It was very difficult to hold still as a fresh wave of pain burst from his Mark, but he managed.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Potter took a deep breath. “Alright, then. Three…two…one…”

_It was well after midnight. His father had just arrived back, accompanied by a dozen Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself. Draco dawdled by the staircase, hoping against hope that he might not be summoned. Panic gripped him—those sorts of traitorous thoughts could get him killed. Just as he started to wonder whether he had been forgotten, he heard that chilling voice: “Draco?”_

_Everyone’s eyes were on him as he edged into the sitting room. The Dark Lord was in his preferred armchair, Nagini wrapped around his legs. Draco glanced over at his father, whose expression was inscrutable._

_“Draco. How have your holidays been?”_

_He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he had to say something. Finally, he managed to croak out, “Very good.”_

_“I hope my intrusion into your home continues to be agreeable to you.”_

_“Of course, my Lord.” He forced himself to look up into the Dark Lord’s red eyes._

_“Tell me, then. What news of the boy?” The Dark Lord leaned back and held a long, pale hand out to Nagini, who brushed her head against it._

_“I don’t see him much, my Lord,” he whispered. His chest was so tight that he couldn’t take a full breath. “I’m busy working on…on Dumbledore.”_

_“You must have classes with him, surely?”_

_Draco broke out into a cold sweat. Something flipped unpleasantly in his stomach. “Yes. He, er…he’s better in Potions, this year.” As the Dark Lord’s lip curled, Draco went on: “But he’s afraid. You can tell. He…he doesn’t have a plan at all. He has no idea what’s going on.”_

_The Dark Lord smirked. “How sad it will be for him, to lose his protector, his champion…and after having lost his godfather, no less…tell me, Draco, what stands between Harry Potter and I once Dumbledore is gone?”_

_“Nothing, my Lord.” Draco swallowed thickly. It took everything in him to shut the fear out of his mind, to wrap his thoughts up and to force a tremulous smile onto his face. “Nothing at all.”_

_“Everything is going as planned, then? With the little task I’ve set you?”_

_Petrified, Draco nodded. “Yes. Yes. I…Yes.”_

_“I hope so, Draco.” He gave him a twisted smile. “I can’t think how your mother and father might react, should you face your Lord’s wrath…Greyback is ever eager, as you know…”_

Just as Draco felt a scream well up within him, that hideous face broke into a hundred pieces. He was back on the forest floor, breathless. The pain radiating from his Mark was agonizing. “Do you have to fucking twist your wand in like that?” he yelped, wrapping his other hand into the blanket so as not to reach for his arm.

“Sorry,” Potter said grimly. “I want to make sure I get all of it.”

He couldn’t argue with that, and so he clenched his jaw, grimacing at the metallic taste in his mouth. Gradually, Potter relaxed his grip, until at last he pulled his wand away.

“It looks about the same,” Potter said. “How does it feel?”

“Burns.”

“Sorry.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his palms into his temples; his head was pounding.

“Malfoy. Why didn’t you say it was me? At the Manor?”

“What?”

“You knew it was me. Why didn’t you say?”

Everything hurt. He felt as though his very bones were bruised. “Why? Is that what came up?”

“No. Or else how would you remember?”

Draco grunted. Perhaps if Potter would just be quiet for a second, he could sleep. He was comfortable enough. The ground wasn’t so hard, really, once he adjusted himself. And it was dark and cool in the forest. Just five minutes of sleep, that was all he needed, just enough to recover…

“Malfoy. Tell me.”

“I don’t know, Potter,” he moaned. “What does it matter?”

“Just now, in your memory…Voldemort was there.” Draco flinched at the sound of that name. “And some other Death Eaters. Your father was there, too. And Voldemort asked about me, but…but you panicked. I could feel you panicking.”

“Fascinating.”

“So why did you panic? And why didn’t you say it was me, at the Manor?”

“Potter.” He sighed angrily, reaching over to tug down his sleeve. “If you’re trying to get me to admit that I wasn’t actually a Death Eater, that I was on your side, then stop it. I took the Mark.”

“I know that,” Potter said quietly.

“Then what does it matter? I panicked. I don’t know. It feels like ages ago.”

“You saved my life.”

Draco didn’t want to listen to this. Angry, he forced himself to sit up. “They called the Dark Lord, anyway. So it didn’t matter.”

“You bought us time.”

“Would you _stop it_?” Draco demanded. “I’m trying to _forget_ , Potter.”

In the dark, he could just make out Potter’s bright green eyes. He couldn’t place the look on his face. Suddenly cold, he crossed his arms against his chest.

“Are you alright?” Potter asked, reaching out to him.

“I’m fine. Let’s get back.”

“You look tired.”

“I…” The concern in Potter’s eyes was unsettling. “I just need some sleep. Come on.” Draco held his breath and then pushed up onto his feet. Every muscle in his body ached, but he managed to stay upright.

“Malfoy.” Something in Potter’s voice made him turn. “I don’t want to forget. About what you did. I don’t care what you say. You saved my life.”

“Great. We’re even, then. Come on.”

When Potter finally moved, Draco sagged in relief. He didn’t want to discuss any of this. It was too raw, too tender, like poking a wound that had barely begun to heal. His own motivations were a mystery to him—every choice he had made, it seemed, was buried under layers of fear, of self-interest, of paranoia, of regret.

They had barely begun their walk back to the castle when Draco tripped over a root. He clung to a tree for support, gasping as the brittle bark dug into his palms.

“Here, let me,” Potter said. Before Draco could protest, Potter had his arm around his waist, supporting his weight.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, trying to disentangle himself. But Potter pulled him forward, ignoring his complaints. They hobbled out of the forest together. This was the second time someone had helped him back to the castle in less than a month. Utterly humiliated, Draco kept his eyes to the ground, praying no one was out for a midnight stroll who might recognize them.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Potter said sternly. “This isn’t safe. Let’s take a break, just for a few weeks.”

Depleted as he was, Draco didn’t have the wherewithal to suppress his resentment. “Really, Potter? Tell me, if you had something like this on your arm, would you want to wait?”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Isn’t it?” he bit back.

“What good is it going to do, getting rid of it, if you end up dead? Or…or mad, or something?”

The Mark ached so tenderly that every time his arm bumped against Potter’s side, a fresh wave of pain coursed through him. Fighting off the urge to groan, to grip his arm, Draco said, “I’d rather be dead than have this thing.”

Potter paused; without his forward motion, Draco stumbled. As they righted themselves, Potter scrutinized him. The pale sliver of moon reflected off his glasses. “You don’t mean that.”

Draco snorted. “You have no idea what I mean.” He pushed away from Potter and forced himself up the path and out of the forest. The air was thinner out on the grounds; it filled his lungs and gave him strength. After a moment, Potter caught up with him. They walked back in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

***

“Draco. Let’s go for a nice walk.” Before he could protest, Pansy took his arm and steered him out of the entrance hall. They had only just finished dinner; Draco thought remorsefully of his warm bed down in the dungeons, calling out to him. His evening plans had consisted of hiding under his blankets and hopefully sorting his Defence homework, but he wisely decided against arguing as Pansy dragged him along.

“Where we are going?” he asked.

“A nice walk, I said.”

“What? You hate exercise. Since when have we ever gone for a ‘nice walk?’”

“Since I decided that I don’t want all of Hogwarts hearing your business.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She said nothing as they pushed through the oak door and into the evening air. A group of Hufflepuffs stood huddled by the entrance, playing Gobstones. Pansy dragged him down the path to the lake.

“Are you going to explain to me what’s wrong?” he snapped. Her grip on his arm was painful.

“Draco.” Pansy stopped short, turning to him. Arms crossed, she said, “You need to tell me what’s going on. You were out of bed _again_ last night.”

“No, I wasn’t.” The lie came to him immediately.

“Yes. You were. Blaise was out for hours…he didn’t get back until one. And you _still_ weren’t in bed.” When Draco said nothing, Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Where were you?”

“I was having a shower.”

“He checked the loo, you prat,” she hissed. “You weren’t there. He couldn’t find you anywhere. He was _worried,_ Draco.”

“And why was he out so late, then?” Draco asked hotly. He turned away and walked briskly down the path. Every step was agony—the slightest jostle set his arm to throbbing. But he refused to show Pansy that anything was amiss.

“That’s a whole other thing,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“What do you mean?”

“That…” Pansy hesitated, and then said, “Ask him yourself. But he’s accounted for. You’re not.”

“Accounted for?” he scoffed. “Meaning what?”

“It’s not my place to say. And stop trying to distract me. This isn’t about Blaise; it’s about you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, looking up at the sky. Early October was bringing about a truly spectacular palette: roses and mauves mixed together in a frothy wash as the day drew to an end.

“And you look tired,” she went on. “It’s as though you aren’t sleeping. And you still haven’t explained what happened in Defence. Or what Potter wanted.”

“I _did_ tell you,” Draco insisted. “He had my textbook. Took it by accident.”

“He couldn’t say that in front of Blaise and I?”

“He…how should I know what Potter thinks?” Pansy’s persistence was wearing down on him; that familiar surge of anger flared up.

“Why are you lying to me?” she demanded. Their eyes briefly met—she was glowering at him, mouth twisted in fury.

“That isn’t fair,” he replied. “You’re pushing me into a corner. You _make_ me lie to you.”

“I’m supposed to be your best friend,” Pansy said in a small, hurt voice. “And all you’ve done is push me out.”

Draco sighed. He could have been nestled under his blankets by now. “I’m not pushing you out, Pansy.”

“You’re hiding something,” she accused him. “Remember the last time you kept secrets from me? In sixth year?” When Draco turned away, she spat, “Because I still remember. It was _awful._ I don’t want a repeat of that—of that year.”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said wearily.

“Friends don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Tell me what Blaise is up to, then.”

“Oh, Draco, it’s nothing,” she said, exasperated. “It’s just…oh, for God’s sake.” She stopped abruptly. They had arrived at the lake; in the distance, Draco could just make out a few students lounging by the shore, casting rocks into the water. “Do you know Kevin Whitby? In Hufflepuff?”

“I…I guess?”

“They’re sort of…” Pansy wavered, and then said in a rush, “They’ve been seeing each other.”

Draco blinked at her. “Alright?”

“Seeing each other,” she repeated, more slowly this time. “As in…they’re together. They’re dating.”

“Yes,” he said idly, “I understand what ‘seeing each other’ entails.”

Pansy rolled her eyes impatiently. “Well, he was worried about telling you.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, taken aback. “Why’s he afraid of telling me? Of all people, why would _I_ care if he likes blokes? I’ve known that for ages. Why would he think—”

“Whitby is a half-blood,” Pansy said softly.

It took a moment for Draco to realize what she meant. Finally, as the truth dawned on him, he felt rather sick. “Oh. He’s…I see.”

“Yes.”

“But I had no problem with Theo,” he argued. “With Theo and Lavender Brown.”

“But she’s a pure-blood, isn’t she?” Pansy said, tilting her head as she looked up at him. “So it’s different.”

Draco’s stomach was in knots. He hoped that perhaps Pansy was lying, or had confused things somehow, but the resolute look on her face told him otherwise. “I don’t understand. The other day, when we were talking about Brown, he mentioned that she’s a pure-blood. Remember? He said ‘at least she’s a pure-blood.’”

“Oh, Draco, he was _testing_ you, don’t you see?” Pansy was staring at him as though she had never seen anyone so dim. “Trying to gauge how you would react.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know!” Draco said, affronted. He drew his cloak tighter around himself and pushed on down the path—the wind had picked up. “This is so stupid.”

“I know,” she said, keeping pace with him. “It’s as though we’re all afraid of each other. I kept telling him he was being ridiculous. You don’t…” She looked askance at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Draco was tired. So very, very tired. “I don’t care about all that rubbish,” he murmured. “I thought this was all supposed to end, after…” He took a deep breath. “After Voldemort died.” Pansy winced next to him, but he ignored her. “I thought it was all supposed to be over.”

“You can’t expect people to just forget,” she said fairly. “I mean, I…” Pansy was quiet as they wove their way back to the castle. She reached out to drag her fingers through the thick, tangled shrubs lining the path. Finally, she said, “I don’t like it. Any of it. But sometimes, I’ll look at someone like Granger, and I can’t help it…I just…” She looked up at him pleadingly. “It’s just _in_ me. It comes up before I can even think about it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“It happens with you, too?” she whispered.

Draco shrugged. “Sometimes. But for me, it’s different, because…because of what I saw. And what I did. Even just thinking of that word—pure-blood—it drives me mad.”

Pansy reached out and took his hand in hers. Surprised, Draco scoffed. “I’m fine. It’s not me you should be worrying about. But, I just…I don’t know. You can’t see that sort of thing and not be changed.”

“Of course.” Pansy squeezed his hand, and then said, “So, what about you, then? You still haven’t told me where you go every night.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

“Really?” she smirked. “You know me better than that.”

“You’re not going to believe me,” Draco warned her. “Or, if you do, you’re going to be angry with me.”

“Let’s get it over with, then,” she sighed.

“I’ve been meeting…I’ve been meeting Potter.”

Pansy stopped. She gripped his hand so tightly that he felt his bones crack. “ _Harry Potter_?” she cried. “You’re—you’re—what do you mean, _meeting_ —”

“He’s helping me with my Mark!” Draco said hastily. He looked around; in the dim light of the early evening, they were well concealed. Carefully, he lifted up his sleeve to show Pansy his arm. “Look. It’s better, isn’t it?”

Her bafflement gave way to awe as she peered down at his arm. “It’s…but, it’s…” She brought her hand up to touch it, pulling away at the last second. “Draco. It’s going away.”

“I know.” Draco couldn’t help the excitement in his voice—if Pansy could see it, too, then he wasn’t just imagining things. “It’s so much lighter than it was.”

“It’s not black at all, anymore,” she said. “Can you get rid of it completely?”

“I hope so.” Draco tugged down his sleeve. Checking to see that they hadn’t been spotted, he gently pulled her forward along the path. “Potter thinks it should.”

“So, he’s been doing this for you? But why?”

Uncomfortable, Draco shrugged. “He tried it himself, with his scar. Granger was helping him.”

“And? What happened? He’s still got his scar, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does. They tried twice, and then they stopped. I don’t really know why.”

“But what if it’s dangerous?” Pansy asked, her face anxious. “What if they’re experimenting on you, to see if it works? Is this—Draco, is this why you’ve been fainting?”

“I mean, maybe. I’m tired after.”

“Then you have to stop,” she said at once. “I’ve never heard of anything like this before. You should see Pomfrey, ask her if it’s safe. And until then, you need to stop.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Draco.” Pansy tried to stop him, but he untangled his hand from hers, hurrying back up the lawn. “Listen to me. This is an awful idea. You look so _tired_ all the time, Draco. You look ill. I didn’t want to say anything, I just thought it was from, you know, everything that happened. But you look awful.”

“I want it over with,” he said curtly. “I can’t stand to look at it anymore.”

Pansy argued with him all the way back to the common room, but Draco tuned her out. The Mark continued to burn, serving as an excellent reminder of all the reasons why he needed to be rid of it.

“I knew you’d react like this,” Draco said angrily as they swept down the stairs to the dungeons. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Oh, excuse me for caring about you,” she snapped.

“If you care about me, then let me do this,” he said in a voice that he hoped would brook no argument. At the furious look on her face, Draco said more gently, “Potter’s the one helping me. You know how he is. I doubt he’d be doing this if he thought I’d get hurt. It’s going to be _fine_ , Pansy.”

Pansy looked as though she was going to cry, but instead she nodded, pushing past him into the common room. It took everything in him not to bicker with her. He was so sick of feeling guilty all the time.

***

Draco lay on the blanket, his head nestled onto the pillow. Above them, the leafy canopy swayed gently in the wind. He waited for Potter to take his arm, to examine his Mark. Instead, Potter sat next to him, cross-legged, and took out a piece of parchment from his bag.

“What’s that?”

“Hermione wrote me some notes. She saw what happened in class…and she said you look tired, lately.”

The thought that Granger had been watching him—and had, by the sounds of it, perhaps felt sorry for him—was discomfiting. Uneasy, Draco snorted. “I’m fine.”

“Mmm.”

“You’ve told her, then? About…” Draco wanted to say “us,” but that sounded odd. As though there was any sort of him and Potter that formed an “us.”

“Yeah. I was worried.”

Now deeply uncomfortable, Draco tried to get some sort of hold on the conversation. Forcing a sneer onto his face, he said, “I’m so touched, thinking of you two Gryffindors fretting over me.”

“Well, yeah.” Potter glanced up from his parchment, eyebrows raised. “You _fainted._ ”

“Never going to let that go, are you?” he mumbled, turning to gaze back up at the sky. The wind was brisk, rattling through the dry leaves as it whipped by.

“Hermione said we should try to consolidate what we’ve done so far,” Potter said, consulting the parchment.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there might be gaps in your memory, now, and your mind doesn’t know how to sort it out,” Potter said. “It’s sort of like…Hermione said your memory is a big web, right? A spider web. When we take out a string, the problem is, that string is connected to lots of other ones. So let’s say you have a memory about, er…” Draco braced himself, expecting Potter to bring up some horrible event from the past. Instead, he said, “Dinner tonight. Well, that memory is connected with a bunch of other ones, right? Every time you’ve been into the Great Hall, you form a new memory. If you had pudding, then all the other times you’ve had pudding are connected to that memory, too. If you talked to, I dunno, Parkinson, or Zabini, that memory connects to all the other times you’ve talked to them.”

“Right. Okay.” In the face of this complexity, Draco found himself growing fearful. “So is it ruined, then? My memory?”

“No, no,” Potter said quickly. “Loads of people lose memories, or rearrange them, or put them into a Pensieve. Hermione said it should be fine. We just need to smooth out any inconsistencies.”

“You’re starting to make me feel like this was a big mistake, allowing you to poke around in my mind,” Draco muttered.

Potter had that serious look on his face again. “I wouldn’t even try, if I thought it would hurt you. But I trust Hermione. And it worked fine when we tried it on me.”

“Did it? Then why did you—”

Cutting him off, Potter read loudly from his parchment: “ _The mind will do the work. The mind naturally wants everything to be consistent, constant, congruent. It’s like healing a scar—the mind will knit over the broken flesh so that it’s whole again._ ” Potter glanced up at him. “She thinks you’ll feel better, after this. And whatever happened in Defence, reliving your memories…it might not happen again.”

“Alright.” Draco settled onto the blanket as comfortably as he could, offering his arm to Potter.

“Oh, no, this is different,” he said. “I’m not erasing anything. Hermione gave me this potion, here…” Potter reached into his pocket and produced a small, green vial. He passed it to Draco, who turned it between his fingers. The label read _Sana Mente._ “You just drink that. And it does its work.”

“Did Granger brew this herself?”

“She did. And she definitely got it right,” Potter said, as fiercely loyal as ever.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not doubting Granger’s aptitude, Potter, don’t worry.” He held the vial up to his eyes. “I just…” He wondered where she had found the time. And why she had bothered to help him. “What happens once I take it?”

“Er…Hermione said you might feel a bit dizzy. Tired. But you’ll be conscious, probably.”

“Probably?” he scoffed. “That’s reassuring.”

“It’s hard to know how people will react. You just sit back and let it do…whatever it needs to do. It’s healing you, basically.”

“Yes, healing all the lovely scars we’ve ripped into my mind. Lovely.” Giving a weary sigh, Draco said, “Can’t I just do this on my own, then? Just lay in bed and let it do its work?”

“Absolutely not,” Potter said firmly. “What if you have a bad reaction?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“A few hours? It depends on how bad the damage is.”

Draco frowned at him. “So you’re going to sit here for hours and watch me while I’m off my rocker. How thrilling for you.”

Potter reached into his satchel and pulled out a thick textbook. “I’ll be studying.”

“And you’re _sure_ this is safe?” Draco demanded. “Absolutely sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. Hermione’s sure.” There was a pause, and then Potter said in a low voice, “I’ve told you. I would never, ever do something if I thought it would hurt you.”

“Right.” Avoiding Potter’s gaze, Draco uncorked the vial. He took a moment to consider it, and then, gathering his courage, he brought it to his lips and tipped the contents down his throat. The bitter taste was not entirely unpleasant.

“How is it?”

“S’alright,” Draco muttered, passing Potter the vial. He closed his eyes and began to absently thread his fingers through his hair. In truth, he was nervous.

Potter considered him. “Do you feel any different?”

“Not really. _Eugh_.” An involuntary shudder ran through him. “Awful aftertaste.”

“Sorry.”

They sat in silence, Draco trying to relax but acutely aware of Potter’s eyes on him. Finally, he snapped, “Talk about something.”

“What?”

“Talk about something. Anything. It’s weird, just sitting here, waiting for something to happen.”

“Well…” Potter fell silent. Draco felt rather stupid; he was too embarrassed to check whether Potter had decided to just ignore him. Then, he suddenly said, “Quidditch practice was awful.”

“When? Today?”

“This morning, before class.” Potter gave a tired sighed. Draco heard him shift. “The problem now is…well, Ginny, you probably know…she was my girlfriend, at one point.”

Draco grunted. Again, that strange tightening in his chest.

“Well, we broke it off because I had to go find the Horcruxes. And, you know, it was too dangerous. I didn’t want her to get hurt.” When Draco said nothing, he continued, “So, anyway, it’s a bit awkward now. Between her and I. It wasn’t at first—that’s what I don’t get. Everything was fine. But now…”

“Unless I’m mistaken, the Dark—” Draco shook himself, and managed to say: “Voldemort—he’s gone now. So why can’t you just get back with her?”

“Yeah, I think that’s the problem,” Potter said. “She said the same thing to me, the other night. We were all at the pub—seventh-years aren’t really supposed to come, but anyway... that’s what she said.”

It felt very odd, thinking of Potter with his own friends, his own life. A life that didn’t involve or include him at all, in which he was a distant figure Potter probably never thought about. “Okay. Then get back with her, as I’ve said.”

Potter was quiet. Draco heard him tapping on something—his textbook, probably—and he wanted to turn over and look, but he suddenly felt weary. His eyelids were so heavy that he doubted he could even open them.

After a while, Potter said, “I don’t really…I dunno. I think we got together because we were supposed to, because, you know, the Weasleys, they’re like my family. And Ron’s my best mate. But Ron, actually, he’s the biggest problem.”

Draco was hovering along that strange precipice just before sleep. His body had already floated off, but his mind insisted on clinging to consciousness. He wanted to ask Potter why Weasley was the problem, whether they were arguing, but he couldn’t force his mouth to form the words. Fortunately, Potter continued.

“I guess it’s because she’s his sister. I don’t know, I’ve never had a sister, obviously. But he’s really angry, because I think everyone expected the same thing. They all thought we’d get back together once the war was over. Nobody really said anything, so I think it was just…understood.” He paused, as though waiting for Draco to comment. After a while, he said, “But I can’t. I told myself to just try, maybe it could work out. But…” Potter lowered his voice. “I did what they asked. What everyone asked. I destroyed the Horcruxes. I got rid of Voldemort. So for them to want something else—for them to _still_ want something of me, to still expect something—”

“S’unfair,” Draco managed to say.

Potter was quiet. Draco was starting to feel very peculiar—he was both in his body and outside of it, floating along the forest floor and yet also fluttering above them, watching the scene unravel from somewhere among the treetops. Unable to do much else other than lay there and listen to Potter speak, Draco found himself relaxing.

“Yeah. It’s unfair. But I don’t want to sound like, you know, like a _victim_ or something. Anyway,” he gave a short laugh, “you don’t care about all this. The point is, Ron’s cross with me, and Ginny—she isn’t angry, really, just awkward. And Hermione’s dating Ron, so she’s trying not to take sides. And then they bring all of this to Quidditch practice, and, yeah…” In a sardonic tone, Potter added, “It’s great, telling someone they need to pass the Quaffle when they won’t even look at you.”

Before he could stop himself, Draco laughed. Sobering up immediately, he forced himself to say, “And your Beaters?”

“They’re better. Coote ditched his girlfriend, so that’s been a big help. We’re getting there. And you’ll be at our first match, right? Gryffindor versus Slytherin?”

“Mmm.”

“We had practice right after Slytherin the other day. Ron and I were watching them for a while. They’re alright. Harper’s tough on them, but he’s…he’s alright.” A pause, and then, “I really don’t think they’ve got a chance without you, though.”

Draco felt a strange warmth spreading from the top of his head. It was almost as though someone was gently pouring a cup of water onto him; he shuddered as the warmth trickled down to his shoulders. The base of his skull tingled. It should have been unpleasant, but it wasn’t, not really—on the edges of consciousness, he found himself uncharacteristically unbothered.

Potter continued. “I wish you were playing this year. I don’t know why you aren’t. It’s weird, not playing against you. It’s sort of like sixth year, when you…stopped playing.” Draco dimly heard Potter turning the pages of his book. “It would’ve been nice, to play against you one more year. It feels like everything’s changed.”

Draco wasn’t sure whether it was a dream, or a memory, or perhaps some figment of his imagination, but in his mind’s eye he saw himself on his broomstick, soaring through the air. And there were Vincent and Greg, playing as Beaters…it was nice to see Vincent again, he thought…and there was Potter, shooting past him as he searched for the Snitch…and Draco decided to chase after him, because why not…wherever Potter went, good things happened…wherever Potter went, the Snitch would surely be there…and so he tailed him, but there was no animosity between them, no real competition…it was wonderful, up in the air, keeping an eye on Potter as he scouted for the Snitch…

By the time Draco came to, he had no idea how long he had been out. A momentary panic gripped him as he realized he was on the forest floor—he sat up, gasping, looking around wildly.

“Malfoy?” He jumped as Potter gripped his shoulder. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” He looked over at Potter’s startled face. Some time must have passed—the darkness in the forest was giving way to a warm, rosy light. It was unsettling, seeing Potter’s features without having to squint in the dark.

“What was it like? How do you feel?”

“I’m…alright.” He pulled up his sleeve and looked down at his Mark. It hadn’t changed. “It was like being asleep, I guess. But not really. I was just sort of daydreaming.”

“How’s the Mark?”

Draco shrugged. “About the same.” He pressed two fingers against it and winced. “Still sore.”

Potter sat back and looked at him appraisingly. Draco had the uncomfortable sense that he was being evaluated. Casting around for a distraction, he asked, “What time is it?”

Potter checked his watch. “Nearly five.”

“ _What_?” he barked. “Nearly five? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“That’s one of the things Hermione said to absolutely _not_ do.”

“Potter. It’s five in the morning. We have class.”

“Yeah.” Potter stretched his arms over his head, groaning as he did. “God, I’m stiff. At least breakfast is soon. I’m starving.”

“You have class. You haven’t slept at all,” Draco pressed.

“I have a free period in the afternoon,” Potter said. Before Draco could argue, he asked, “Do you feel better? Can you tell if anything’s changed?”

“I guess I’m not as tired.” Draco picked a dry, shriveled leaf from the ground and began to spin it between his fingers. “Maybe my head doesn’t hurt as much.”

“You looked peaceful,” Potter said mildly.

Draco blanched. He felt exposed as he realized that Potter had been watching him sleep. Of course, he hadn’t been sleeping, not really, but he had been in a position so vulnerable that he momentarily scolded himself for being so careless. Potter could have left him in the forest, or taken his wand, or hexed him, or any number of things. These were all of the worst-case scenarios he had learned to run through in his attempt to survive the war. A part of him knew, though, that Potter wouldn’t actually hurt him. That certainty rested deep within him, a hard kernel of truth that he couldn’t quite explain.

“Well, let’s get back,” Potter said. He sighed as he clambered to his feet. “Hermione will want a full report.”

“Potter,” Draco said, suddenly fearful. “You don’t tell her, right? About my memories?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” The sombre tilt of his mouth was proof enough that he meant what he said.


	2. Intra-Action

Draco’s mother had tricked him again—Wednesday morning, her eagle owl swept across the Slytherin table, dropping a roll of parchment neatly on his lap. He could not have imagined a worst way to sour his already miserable mood. The nightmares that had haunted him over the summer were back with a vengeance: dark, shifting rooms, bright flashes of green light, and painfully cold fingers trailing across his cheeks. After several nights of tossing and turning, he was exhausted.

“Is everything alright?” Pansy asked, eyeing him fearfully. “Your mother always writes on Thursdays.”

Draco gave a deep, long-suffering sigh. “I’m sure she’s fine.” Before he could tuck the parchment away into his satchel, Pansy gripped his wrist.

“Read it,” she ordered. “You’ve been ignoring her for too long.”

Draco glared, snatching his hand away. “Maybe I read her letters when I’m alone. That way people won’t poke their noses into my business.”

“ _Do_ you read them?"

“Sure.”

“Draco,” Pansy started up as he stuffed the letter away, “she’s your mother. She has _no one_ at the Manor. Imagine how lonely it must be for her. Just think how—”

“Drop it, Pansy,” Blaise advised her. He was slathering jam onto a thick slice of toast, shaking his head at their bickering. “You can’t tell people when to read their own post, for God’s sake.”

“You think it’s alright, then?” Pansy said, rounding on Blaise. Sat between them, Draco was vividly reminded of the countless times during his childhood that his parents had rowed, forgetting he was there. “You don’t feel sorry for Mrs. Malfoy? She’s always been good to us, Blaise. Always.”

When Blaise shrugged, Draco felt a surge of gratitude towards him. “It’s not our business.”

“Yes, it is. We’ve known her for ages, she—”

“And how are things with _your_ parents, then?” Blaise interrupted her. “Your father still looking to pull you out of Hogwarts?”

Pansy snapped her mouth shut, glowering at him.

“What’s this?” Draco asked, turning towards her in confusion.

“Nothing," she said, returning to her tea. "My father's just being ridiculous.”

“Where are they going to send you?” Draco persisted. “Abroad?”

She gave a cold, bitter laugh. “Of course not. They want to keep an eye on me. They’re very _embarrassed,_ you see, by what I said last year. At…”

“The Battle,” he finished for her. She gave a stiff nod. “Well, Potter’s forgiven you, hasn’t he?”

“Yes. And I’ve told them that. But they’re still furious with me.”

“And how does Blaise know this, when I don’t?” When Pansy didn’t answer, Draco turned to Blaise—and was startled to find a very strange, soppy look on his face that he had never seen there before. He was grinning in the direction of the Hufflepuff table.

Pansy, who hadn’t noticed anything, finally said, “His mother talks to mine, that’s why. And neither of them can keep anything to themselves.” She took a sip of tea, and then said waspishly, “Who knows? If you opened your mother’s letters, she might have told you, too.”

As they finished their breakfast, Pansy said, “Let’s go to the courtyard. I need to finish that Transfiguration paper.”

“You’re lucky you’ve got a free period,” Blaise grumbled. “You can’t imagine how dull it is to have Binns first thing in the morning.”

“Yeah. Listen, Blaise.” As Pansy turned to talk to the seventh year next to her, Draco lowered his voice. “I know about Kevin Whitby.”

“What?” Blaise looked up at him, shocked.

“It’s fine,” Draco said quickly. “I’m fine with it.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. I don’t…I don’t care. I mean, not that I don’t care, but…” He shook his head. “You get what I mean.”

“Well…thanks, mate.” Draco stared at Blaise in alarm—never in their lives had Blaise ever called him “mate” before. He followed Blaise’s gaze over to the Hufflepuff table, where a sandy-haired, freckled boy waved at them. “Fit, isn’t he?”

“He’s…er…yeah.” He could think of nothing else to do besides clasp Blaise’s shoulder. “He seems great. I’m happy for you.”

As they rose from the bench and gathered their things, Blaise said, “Next time we meet up with Theo, I might bring Kevin. I suppose you two wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course we wouldn’t,” Pansy said. “Look at us, championing inter-house unity. I won’t be kissing any Gryffindors, though,” she warned.

Blaise scoffed. “Obviously. Everyone knows it’s Michael Corner you’ve got eyes for.”

“ _What_?” Pansy shrieked. Several heads swiveled towards them. “What are you on about, Blaise?”

Pansy and Blaise bickered as they headed towards the entrance hall. Before he could stop himself, Draco peered over at the Gryffindor table. Potter was surrounded by his usual entourage—Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, Thomas, and Finnigan. They were laughing uproariously. Draco’s stomach twisted painfully as he watched Finnigan bring his hand up to his forehead and pretend to faint. He realized, with a start, that Finnigan was re-enacting his fall in Defence. And Potter—well, he wasn’t laughing outright like Weasley, but he smiled and shook his head as he sipped from his goblet. And that hurt. It shouldn’t have. But it did. In that moment, Draco loathed himself more for the sad little ache in the pit of his stomach than for passing out in class.

He only realized he was staring when Weasley looked up and, catching sight of him, frowned. Before he could escape into the press of students, Draco saw Weasley elbow Potter. As their eyes met, the smile dropped from Potter’s face. Draco turned his nose up at them and stormed out of the Great Hall, telling himself that he didn’t care as he heard another peal of laughter from the Gryffindor table.

 _‘They’re idiots,’_ he thought scathingly. Potter himself had fainted all over the castle in third year. But that had been because of the Dementors, he knew. And after the events of the war, he could scarcely stand to be around them, either. What was his excuse, then? He had none. He was just weak. Pathetic. Feeling very small, he pushed through the crowd and followed Blaise and Pansy into the entrance hall.

***

Draco retreated to the dormitory after dinner. He still needed to finish his chart for Arithmancy, and he had fallen behind in his Charms homework again. It was strange, sharing a room with only Blaise. They kept their space tidy: both four-poster beds were neatly made with emerald sheets, and their respective bedside tables were bare. As he sat down at his ancient writing desk, Draco pulled out his numbers chart. Vector was relentless this year; she expected them to produce complicated compositions every week. So far, Draco hadn’t been particularly successful, and he felt Vector’s patience growing thin. He needed to sort out his chart before he left to meet with Potter in the forest.

Bloody Potter. He was just as much of a git as he had always been. That little slice of hurt twisted in his chest as Draco recalled the smile on his face. Furious, he yanked open his desk drawer, searching for a spare quill. A very bad choice—he remembered at the last second that he kept his mother’s unopened letters in this drawer. They sat together in a little pile, each roll of parchment bound with a strip of green ribbon. Before he knew what he was doing, Draco reached forward and sifted through them. Finally, he selected a scroll. His heart pounded as he unfurled it.

_Draco—I miss you. The Manor is so quiet without both of you here. For years, we used to pray for the day when we would have some peace in our home again. Do you remember? The only way we managed to get through it was by telling ourselves that someday our home would be ours and only ours. Well, here I am. I have the Manor to myself. And I am so alone. I’ve never been alone. After Hogwarts, I lived with my parents until I married your father. And then we lived together. And then we had you. I’m not made to be alone. But don’t misunderstand me—I’m glad you’re back at Hogwarts. You are so brave. You make me so proud._

_I don’t know what else to say. I miss you. I want to hear about your classes, your friends. But I know you’re busy. Let me know when you can come with me to visit your father. He misses you. We love you._

Draco reread the note several times. There was a lump in his throat as he thought of his mother, alone in the Manor. They had done their best to tidy it over the summer, but there had hardly been any time between their hearings. One night, after his father had retired to the study, they had aired out the sitting room. His mother now detested that room, and so did he—too many painful memories. Over and over, as they rearranged the furniture and cleaned out the grate, his mother had insisted that she was going to redecorate.

“I want everything out,” she had said, voice trembling.

“Even this?” Draco had held up a jeweled egg—shaped in periwinkle enamel and encrusted with rose-cut diamonds, it had belonged to his great-great-grandmother.

“Especially that.”

Sitting at his desk, rolling the parchment back into a tight scroll, Draco wondered whether his mother had redecorated the sitting room after all. Perhaps, after that, she might move on to the dining room. Draco took up his quill. He should write and let her know that he was fine, that his classes were going well, and that he wouldn’t be visiting Azkaban with her. But he was still angry. So very, very angry. And he couldn’t allow himself to feel all that, because once he began he would never stop. There was so much to be furious about, so much to rage against and to question and to grieve. It was best for everyone, then, that he reinforce his carefully-constructed dam, lest the barrier break open and he be forced to feel the full extent of his revulsion towards his parents. Draco reached for his wand, meaning to light the letter on fire, but he found himself incapable of doing even that. Shame and guilt mixed with anger as he threw the parchment back into the drawer, slamming it shut.

Draco needed to get on with his homework, but he couldn’t stand to be in the dormitory a moment longer. He pushed away from his desk and took his winter cloak from the wardrobe. On the way downstairs, he considered heading to the library, where Pansy and Blaise had gone to study. But that option was no better—he didn’t think he could hold up his end of a conversation, and he wouldn’t be able to tolerate Pansy’s prodding. It was a conundrum that had been plaguing him for years: he both did, and did not, want to be alone. There was only one place to go, then.

The cool air nipped at him as he hurried down to the lake. Off in the distance, he could see Hagrid lumbering out of the forest. Otherwise, the grounds were empty. Just as Pansy had done, Draco trailed his fingers through the shrubs growing along the path. Dusk was bleeding into night, and the darkening sky warned of rain: swaths of gray clouds blanketed the stars. He wondered if Potter would still want to meet if it rained. Potter. The image of him smiling at Finnigan’s joke, shaking his head as he drank from his goblet, leapt out at him before he could stop it. They had been antagonizing each other for years. That was how things had always been between them—were supposed to be between them. That was where, only a few weeks ago, he had felt comfortable. Potter was everything that he was not, and vice-versa. Potter was the pole star around which his life had always seemed to rotate; but pole stars, he knew, shifted over time. Perhaps too much had happened, both between them and within them, and they had since been thrown out of alignment. Potter hardly seemed to notice him outside of their midnight meetings. And their fights no longer brought Draco satisfaction. Instead, the slightest taunts undid him.

The snowy white obelisk stood a few yards away from the shore. It was topped with a brilliant silver capstone. Draco approached cautiously, feeling as though he wasn’t meant to be there. He found it difficult to breathe as a fresh wave of guilt inundated him. Slowly, very slowly, he reached up and trailed his fingers over the names—Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, Colin Creevey…and there, near the top, Severus Snape. The blocky, carved letters leapt out at him. Severus, he thought bitterly, had deserved to live. He had done what Dumbledore asked. He had served the Order as best he could. He had deceived the Dark Lord up until the very end. And beyond that, he was Severus Snape—Potions Master, Hogwarts professor, and, at one time, Headmaster. Meanwhile, he was only Draco Malfoy. Just Draco Malfoy, who had done absolutely nothing of note and in fact was the reason Severus had been forced to kill Dumbledore.

Draco traced each letter of Severus’ name. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

He wanted to be angry with his mother for forcing Severus to make the Unbreakable Vow, but his resentment over that had long passed. In the place of anger, guilt and shame lingered. Wrapping his arms around himself, Draco sat in the grass, his back pressed against the obelisk. He stayed there until it was time to meet Potter. And he grieved.

***

It did not rain after all. Walking towards the clearing, Draco had been filled with indignation—he rehearsed to himself how he would confront Potter. He would, he told himself, demand to understand why Potter had shown concern for him after Defence, only to mock him with his friends. He would point out his hypocrisy. He would maybe even tell him that he no longer wanted his help, that he didn’t need him anymore, that they could part ways knowing full well that there was no possibility of friendship between them. But, the moment he passed the giant oak tree and saw Potter—sitting cross-legged, the crimson blanket and pillow already conjured, a sheepish look on his face—all of his arguments seemed to dry up.

“Hi,” Potter said softly.

Hating himself for losing his nerve, Draco nodded. They said nothing as Draco crawled onto the blanket, settling onto his back and adjusting the pillow under his head. Not for the first time, he noted that it was very difficult to maintain any sort of dignity from his position on the ground.

“Can I?”

At first, Draco wasn’t sure what Potter was referring to. Glancing over, he saw Potter reaching for his arm. “I don’t know why you bother to ask,” he muttered, looking away as he stretched his arm out onto Potter’s lap.

He was quiet as Potter rolled up his sleeve and examined the Mark. The unexpected familiarity that had come to grow between them vanished as suddenly as it had arrived. Potter barely touched him as he squinted down at the Mark. Perhaps, Draco thought bitterly, he had finally come to his senses and realized what Draco was. Or, rather, what he had been.

“Ready?”

Draco grunted. Potter hesitated, and then finally, Draco felt him press his wand into his forearm. “Three…two…one…”

_They were alone in the Manor. Even so, his mother brought him to her study, closing and locking the door behind them. It didn’t really matter—the Dark Lord had access to every last corner of the house. Nothing could keep him out. All the same, his mother warded the door, muttering to herself as Draco sat on the edge of the sofa. He already knew what this was about._

_He had expected her to be angry, but instead her face betrayed no emotion as she crouched down in front of him. “You’ve done it, then.”_

_Draco nodded mutely. There was no point in lying._

_His mother let out a soft sigh. “Let me see.”_

_“No,” he rasped. “Don’t look.”_

_“I need to see it. Otherwise, I’ll tell myself it’s not true.”_

_Grimacing, Draco pulled up his sleeve. There, on his forearm, the Dark Mark twisted angrily; the edges were still swollen, red and raw._

_“I should have been there,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”_

_“I just…” Uncomfortable, he tugged his sleeve back down. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”_

_She gave a mirthless laugh and came to sit next to him on the sofa. Regarding him with her pale eyes, she said, “Children hurt their parents. I should have been there, for this.”_

_“I’m not a child anymore,” Draco protested. “I’ve got the Mark. And he’s…he’s trusting me. With something big.”_

_He flinched as his mother reached out to brush the hair from his face. “You didn’t have to do this. There are other ways. Your father…”_

_“Father’s less than useless,” Draco spat. “What good is he to us, locked away in Azkaban? He can’t protect us.”_

_“And you think this will protect us?” his mother asked, glancing down at his left arm. “You’ve put yourself in greater danger than you could ever imagine.”_

_“_ I’ve _put myself in danger?” Draco leapt up angrily. “Oh, yes, it’s my fault. You two—you and Father—if you hadn’t—if you’d only just—I never asked for any of this!”_

_Face twisted in fury, his mother stood as well. “Then your solution is to join him? We could have sent you away, could have gone to Dumbledore—”_

_“I’m sick of your empty promises,” he growled. “Since the Dark Lord came back…this isn’t how you said it would be.”_

_Shaking her head, his mother sank back onto the sofa. “I’ll die, Draco. If I lose you, I’ll die.”_

_“You should have thought of that before you chose his side, then,” he said coldly. “You’ve left it to me to sort out the mess you’ve made.”_

_“Leave the country,” she croaked. “Leave, and let him do what he will to me.”_

_“That’s—you don’t—you don’t understand at all,” Draco spluttered._

_His mother opened her mouth to answer when they heard a loud_ bang _from downstairs._

_“They’re back." She rearranged her robes as she jumped up and rushed to the door. Tapping the knob smartly, she said, "We’ll discuss this later.”_

_Sitting alone in the study, Draco felt none of the satisfaction he had expected from confronting his mother. Instead, he was strangely numb. Tentatively, he reached down and touched the Mark through his sleeve. It was warm. He didn’t dare wonder whether he had made a terrible mistake._

Draco came to slowly, as though he was emerging from a deep sleep. In the dark, he could just make out Potter looking down at him, brows furrowed. The ache in his arm was barely noticeable; instead, an intense sadness filtered through him.

“Look. You can hardly see the eyes, now.”

Potter was right. Holding his arm up, Draco studied the hideous skull imprinted on his skin. The features were blurred.

“I wanted to ask…” Potter paused, as though bracing himself, and then said, “Have you had any other…flashbacks? Like you did in Defence?”

“Not really.”

“Good.” Potter pocketed his wand and cleared his throat. “That’s, er, that’s really good.”

“You’ll have to find something else to make fun of me for,” Draco said.

Even in the dark, he could see the way Potter’s face turned red. “I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

“Can I ask you something?” Before Potter had a chance to respond, Draco said, “Why did you act like you cared? Why bother carrying on, talking to Granger about it and bringing me that potion, when you think it’s a big laugh?”

“I do care,” Potter said immediately. “It’s not what it looked like.”

“Really, Potter?” Draco said drily. “Because it looked like you and your stupid friends were making fun of me for passing out in Defence.”

Potter shook his head. “I know. But I—I told them to stop, after you left.”

“My hero.”

“It just sort of happened. Sometimes I forget that we’re—that we’re—” Draco’s heart leapt in a very odd sort of way as Potter struggled to find the right words. “That we’re alright. I’m just not used to it.”

“Right,” he said in a dull voice. “Well, I’m sorry it’s so difficult for you, trying not to behave like a prat.”

“What?” Potter blanched. “You can’t be serious. It's not as though you're innocent in all this. In third year, you dressed up as a Dementor and walked onto the pitch. I fell off my broom!”

“I was thirteen!” Draco shot back. “Thirteen-year-olds aren’t known for having much sense!”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.” Potter scowled at him. “But you’ve done loads of things, too, really awful things, but I’m not sitting here asking you to go through all of them and apologize.”

“I can, if you’d like.” No longer tired, Draco sat up. “I’m so sorry, Potter, for saving you at the Manor. I’m so sorry for risking my family for you. My life for you.”

“Don’t give me that,” Potter snapped. “You tried to use _Crucio_ on me!”

“And you ripped me apart!” Draco was shouting now. “You used that—that curse, whatever the fuck it was—I could have _died_ —”

“And what did you plan to do in the Room of Requirement, then?” Potter demanded. “You weren’t going to hand me off to Voldemort?”

“So why did you save me?” he yelled. “You should have left me there! Should have left me there to die, with Vincent!”

“But I didn’t! I didn’t, even after everything you’ve done! So why are you on me for _smiling_ at a stupid joke?”

Draco tried, and failed, to come up with a response. Suddenly ashamed, he said, “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Potter said in a tired voice. He exhaled sharply, pushing the hair from his face. “I don’t want to fight anymore. Please? We’ve fought enough. I want us to get on.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“And I won’t laugh at you again. Honestly.”

“Forget about that,” said Draco. “I’m sure…I’m sure it was funny. I would’ve laughed if it was someone else.”

“It wasn’t funny,” Potter said solemnly. “You scared me.”

“Yes, I’m so sure,” Draco scoffed. “After taking on the Dark Lord, I’m sure watching some git faint in class was terrifying.”

“It was. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d really hurt you, trying to get rid of your Mark.”

“Well, I’m fine," Draco said, shrugging uneasily. "And you’re…” He glanced at Potter’s pale face. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine. It’s just homework, and now Quidditch, driving me spare.”

Trying to bring them back on civil ground, Draco said, “First game this Saturday.”

“You’ll be there, right?”

“I mean, I imagine so.” When Potter frowned, Draco said, “You really want me at this bloody Quidditch match. Why? Are you planning something horrible? Revenge for what I did in third year?”

“What? No.” Potter shook his head. “If I’m not playing against you, I at least want you there, watching. I want to see your face when we crush Slytherin.”

“Don’t dismiss Harper so quickly,” Draco warned. “He’s not bad.”

“But he’s not you.”

Draco was at a loss for words. His heart sped up when Potter gave him a lopsided smile. He knew, vaguely, what was happening, and he cursed himself for it. Pushing the thought from his mind, Draco jumped up so suddenly that Potter startled.

“Let’s get back,” he said briskly. “I have a paper to finish.” Before Potter could reply, he turned away and waited by the edge of the clearing, telling himself to get a grip. Hoping Potter wouldn’t notice, he gently pressed the pads of his fingers against his throat, feeling for his pulse. It was racing.

***

Draco was nervous, waiting outside of Slughorn’s office. He told himself not to be—he had faced much worse terrors than his Head of House. But his teachers’ reactions to him had run the full gamut this year, from ignoring him entirely to being openly hostile, and he wasn't sure yet where Slughorn fell. They rarely spoke in Potions, as Slughorn was usually chattering away with Potter and his friends, swooning in the presence of the Chosen One.

 _‘You’ve faced Voldemort,’_ Draco told himself. _‘You got the Mark. You’ve seen things—awful things. Just go in there, you idiot.’_

Before he could lose his nerve, Draco rapped on the door. When there was no answer, he allowed himself to hope that perhaps Slughorn had forgotten. He deflated when, a moment later, he heard, “Come in!”

He wrinkled his nose as he stepped into the spacious room. These had once been Severus’ quarters—austere, simple, and filled with the sorts of things a Potions Master might use. Instead, Slughorn’s office was exceedingly grand: on the ivory walls hung landscapes, portraits, and an enormous mirror above the fireplace, while the centre of the room was occupied with a gilded sofa. Draco almost didn’t spot Slughorn, seated at his desk behind a spray of flowers. One of the statues behind him depicted a woman pouring wine into a man’s mouth—they looked over at Draco as he approached.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Slughorn said pleasantly enough. He moved the bouquet to the corner of his desk, motioning towards an ornate armchair across from him. As Draco sat, Slughorn glanced around his office. “They have me down here, in Professor Snape’s old rooms, as you can see. As Head of House, I suppose, well, anyway…”

Draco nodded stiffly. The pain he felt whenever he thought of Severus was familiar enough, but it stung all the same. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Slughorn fussed with some parchments in front of him. “A rather awkward business. I’m afraid your marks aren’t quite up to snuff this year.”

He didn’t know what to say. There was no defending himself, and he couldn’t think of any excuse he was willing to share with Slughorn.

“I understand it must be difficult, jumping back into classes after the events of last year,” Slughorn muttered. He seemed as uncomfortable as Draco felt. “No doubt, a shock to us all…but you’ve always been a good student. I have to admit, I myself have been surprised at your work.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself not to snap. Slughorn had no idea what he had been through. No idea at all.

“Now, here’s what I propose.” Slughorn leaned forward and clasped his hands on top of his desk. He had very much the air of someone who was about to give him a special treat. “You don’t need to be back at Hogwarts, Draco. As you’ve seen, many students have chosen to—”

“I won’t leave,” he said at once. “I won’t. I’m sitting my N.E.W.T.s.” He couldn’t leave Hogwarts and risk losing the opportunity to be rid of his Mark. The thought of being separated from Potter now, when they had already made so much progress, triggered a flood of anxiety.

Slughorn stared at him. Apparently, he hadn’t been expecting an interruption. After a moment, he said, “Well, then perhaps you might reduce your course load. Six N.E.W.T.s, boy, it really isn’t necessary…”

“I can manage it,” said Draco. “I know I can. I’m just having a rough time, getting back into things.”

“I don’t know what I’ll tell your other teachers,” Slughorn said plaintively.

That was it, then. They wanted him gone. The realization only strengthened his resolve. As politely as he could, Draco said, “I understand, sir. There won’t be any more problems.”

Slughorn sighed, leaning back into his chair. “I suppose…” He looked away, gazing at a painting of a pastoral scene. “I understand that you need your N.E.W.T.s. Perhaps a tutor?” Slughorn glanced over and, at the sight of Draco’s face, said, “Never mind, then. It was only a thought. Well, I’ll be waiting for an improvement. Otherwise, we may have to discuss again…”

Draco nearly vibrated with outrage. There were loads of students at Hogwarts whose grades were worse than this—Finnigan’s marks in Transfiguration couldn’t be much better. But he doubted their Heads of House were threatening them with expulsion. “Will that be all, sir?”

“I should think so,” Slughorn said, looking back at the painting.

Draco leapt up from his seat and stormed out of the room. He was afraid he might say something stupid if he stayed a moment longer. Heart racing, he headed for the Slytherin dormitories. Pansy, he knew, would be appropriately outraged. She was an expert at self-righteous indignation.

He found her in her dormitory, studying at her little wooden desk. As he entered the large, empty room, Draco suddenly stopped short as a pang of sympathy gripped him. He had been so wrapped up in his own troubles that he hadn’t considered how difficult it must be for Pansy, who had no one to share a room with this year.

“Draco!” she said, looking up from her textbook. “Is everything alright?”

“You’re by yourself,” he said. He felt stupid, but he couldn’t shake the thought from his head. “You’re not rooming with anyone this year.”

She looked around, shrugging. “It’s not too bad. I was tired of listening to people snore, anyway.” As he hovered in the doorway, she raised her eyebrows at him. “Did you want to come in?”

Draco crawled up onto her bed, sitting on the emerald sheets. It felt like old times, when they had whispered together in their first years at Hogwarts about the classes they were taking, the boys they liked, the letters their parents sent them. And then, in fourth year, their conversations had grown darker—his father’s Mark had started to burn, and they had all begun to fear that the Dark Lord would return…and Pansy had reassured him that he was being paranoid, and anyway, it didn’t involve _him_ , _he_ didn’t have to do anything…

“I’d have visited you sooner,” Draco said, examining the damask pattern on her sheets. “I forgot. Forgot you’d be alone in here.”

“Oh, would you quit it?” Her tone was brusque, but there was a little smile on her face as she turned her chair to face him properly. “It’s so strange when you get weepy.”

“I’m not weepy,” he defended himself. “Anyway, I’ve just gone to see Slughorn.”

“And?”

“He’s an idiot,” Draco growled.

“Why? What’s he done?” Absently, she fiddled with a button on her shirt; it was dangling by a thread.

“He said he’s not happy with my grades. The other teachers aren’t either, apparently.

Pansy tutted at him as she worked on her button. “Draco, I keep telling you to study. I’ve said it a hundred times already: your N.E.W.T.s are _important_.”

“Yeah, well, he said I should just leave,” Draco said bitterly.

Pansy’s eyes shot up to meet his. She abandoned her button. “What do you mean?”

“He said I don’t even need to be here, that other students have decided not to come back.”

“Did he _tell_ you to leave?”

“No. I didn’t give him the chance.” Anger flashed through him as he recalled the complacent look on Slughorn’s face—he hadn’t even seemed particularly concerned.

“I can’t believe this,” Pansy hissed. She jumped to her feet, face reddening. “What’s wrong with him? You think if Potter, or Weasley, or Granger, if they were having a hard time—because of what they’ve _seen_ , what they’ve _been through_ —you think McGonagall would tell them to leave?”

Pansy could always be counted on to be furious on his behalf; the way her features twisted in outrage was hugely satisfying. “That’s exactly what I thought!” Draco agreed. “There’s no way Flitwick, McGonagall, or Sprout are advising their students to leave. It’s a _school_ , for God’s sake. They’re supposed to be _encouraging_ us to take our N.E.W.T.s!”

“I bet you Slughorn’s only taken that line with you,” Pansy said darkly. “Because of…you know. God, he’s a coward.”

“He could barely look me in the eye.”

“I never liked him,” Pansy said promptly. “I never did. God, can you imagine what Snape would say?” She was pacing now. “He would _never_ tell one of us not to bother with our N.E.W.T.s. Do you think all the staff agree? Or it’s just Slughorn who doesn’t want to deal with you?”

Draco shrugged. “I don’t know. He seemed upset about having to tell everyone I’d be staying, though.”

“What do we do?” Pansy asked, hands on her hips. “We need to do something. You can try McGonagall, but who knows? Maybe she agrees with Slughorn. Who else can we go to? The board of governors? I’m guessing your father doesn’t have much pull there anymore.”

“No. Definitely not.” Draco shook his head vehemently. “I’m not going to any of them. I told Slughorn I’ll pull my marks up, and I will. You think I’m going to give them the satisfaction of kicking me out? Bet they’d love that.”

“That’s right,” Pansy said. “You have to show them, Draco. You really need to focus on your classes.” She hesitated, and then asked, “Do you think you should keep meeting with Potter, then?”

His heart froze. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re up so late, whenever you see him. And you’ve got loads to catch up on, I’ve seen the state of your homework…”

“I’m not stopping,” Draco said flatly. “That’s half the reason I want to stay.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he said, “I want this thing gone, Pansy. You don’t understand.”

“I do understand.” She held up her hand to prevent an interruption. “I do. But…you’ll have to manage, Draco. N.E.W.T.s need to be your top priority.”

“They will be,” he insisted. “It’s only the start of term. I can catch up.”

“I hope so,” Pansy said, eyeing him doubtfully. “Because if you don’t, I’ll be stuck here alone with Blaise. We’ll kill each other by the end of the year.”

Draco snorted. She was right—he had seen some spectacular arguments between the two of them.

“I’ll catch up. I’ll manage. You’ll see.”

***

When Draco arrived in the clearing, Potter wasn’t at his usual spot. Instead, he was standing off to the side, hands in his pockets. Frightened that something was wrong, Draco edged towards him. “Potter?” he called, sounding braver than he felt.

Potter looked up. “Hi.”

“Is…everything alright?” he asked. Drawing closer, he saw that Potter wore a rather pensive look on his face.

“Right here,” Potter said, nodding towards the ground. “I was standing right here when Voldemort tried to kill me. I’m positive.”

“Here?” The rasp in his voice startled him—embarrassed, Draco cleared his throat.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.” He gave Draco a lopsided grin. “It’s hard to forget where you nearly died, I guess.”

“Right.” Draco crossed his arms; the autumn air was chilly. They stood together for a moment, looking down at the stretch of grass Potter had indicated. Finally, he asked, “What was it like?”

“Mmm?” Potter glanced up at him. It was as though he had forgotten Draco was still there. “It wasn’t bad. I ended up at King’s Cross. Well, sort of. It was a King’s Cross in my mind.”

Draco pulled a face. “Really? What an awful place to spend the rest of eternity.”

Potter laughed. “I don’t think I would have stayed there forever. Dumbledore was there, too. He said I could board a train to go on.”

“Go on to where?” Draco asked quietly.

“Dunno. And Voldemort was there, too.”

“ _What?”_

“Well, his soul, anyway. I sort of…felt bad.”

“You felt bad.”

Potter shrugged. “Dumbledore said he was beyond saving. So there was nothing I could do. But it was awful to look at.”

“Weren’t you scared?” Draco breathed. “Coming here to die?”

“’Course,” Potter said carelessly. He kicked at something on the ground. “I think I’d figured it out in the end, anyway. But I was still scared. I remember I tucked my wand underneath my robes, you know, so I wouldn’t be tempted to fight him.”

Draco’s mouth went dry. He didn’t know what to say other than, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not. I just…I dunno. I think about it sometimes.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, coming back here?”

“Not really.” Potter smiled. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? That’s what matters.”

“Imagine if you hadn’t lived,” Draco croaked. “Plenty more people would have died…who knows what he would have done with me, with my parents…and you…”

“I wouldn’t be up at midnight, in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, helping some prat,” Potter teased him.

But Draco couldn’t smile. It was almost impossible to imagine a world in which Harry Potter had died, in which his face wasn’t plastered over every newspaper and every magazine, in which he wasn’t fooling around with his Gryffindor friends and making a nuisance of himself in class. In which he wasn’t now looking at Draco anxiously, the moonlight reflecting off his glasses.

“Hey,” Potter said softly, taking a step towards him. His hands were still in his pockets. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” Draco sniffed.

Potter gave him a quizzical look. When Draco said nothing, he added: “I’d do it again. So…don’t be upset. Because I’m not.”

Draco nodded. He couldn’t take the earnest look on Potter’s face a moment longer; urging himself to get a grip, he turned to the spot where he usually lay. “What, no blanket this time?”

Potter sniggered. “See, I’ve spoiled you now.” His words did funny things to Draco’s stomach, but Potter didn’t seem to notice as he set about conjuring the usual crimson blanket and pillow.

“Maybe a different colour next time,” Draco grumbled.

“Definitely not,” Potter said. As they settled into their usual positions, he added, “What’s wrong with red and gold?”

“At least we could mix it up. Ravenclaw colours one time, Slytherin the next, you know…”

“As I’ve said,” Potter reached out for Draco’s arm, hesitating until he nodded, “spoiled.”

Was this banter? Were he and Potter being civil—perhaps even friendly towards one another? Looking up through the branches at the dark, cloudy sky, Draco wondered if this was what it could be like, being friends with Potter. Normal conversations, where they might tease each other but it was all in good fun…Discussions centred around topics Draco normally tried to avoid, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Altogether, it didn't sound terrible.

Quietly, Potter said, “I’m starting now. Alright?” When Draco nodded, he muttered, “Three…two…one…”

 _There was a bright flash of green light, and then it was over. He desperately wanted to stop shaking, but he couldn’t help it. The trembling seemed to come from deep within him, rattling through his bones and extending out into his flesh. He had just witnessed his first murder—and although there had been no blood, no carnage, the man’s blank face as it stared up at him was petrifying. The other Death Eaters seemed indifferent—they had hoped to gather information from the man, and when he could not provide it, he was disposed of. Draco hadn’t even known his name. He watched, horrified, as they carelessly levitated his body off the dining table and out of the room. Draco glanced up at his father, whose face was pale but carefully blank. He needed to know that his father cared. That he was just as revolted. Rowle had killed as though it was nothing_. _As though he had been swatting away a fly. As the meeting went on, Severus speaking in a low voice about the situation at Hogwarts, Draco wondered where his mother was. Up in her study, no doubt. He wanted to go to her. He wasn’t even ashamed to admit it—he wanted his mother. He was still angry with her, still hated her, in some ways, for what she and his father had forced him to do—but he needed her. This wasn’t a game, he now realized. This was war, and it was awful._

The searing pain in his Mark caused him to shout. Startled out of his memory, Draco made to pull his arm away, but Potter was holding it tightly, muttering to him.

“I’m sorry, Draco, I’m sorry…I know…I know…”

A great burst of pain shot through his arm—he screamed—and then, at once, his arm was nearly numb. Draco squeezed his eyes shut; he felt tears dripping down his face. He had the vague sense that he should be humiliated for crying in front of Potter, but instead he was overcome with a sorrow so strong that it seemed to rip its way out of him.

Finally, Potter pulled his wand away. He rubbed his thumb along Draco’s Mark. “It’s gone down,” Potter said, his voice hopeful. “When you can, have a look. It’s better.”

Draco pulled his arm away and brought his hands up to cover his face. He was really crying now, soft sobs racking his body. His chest felt hollow, as though his soul had vacated his body and might not ever return.

“I’m so sorry…Draco, I’m really sorry…” Potter sounded as bewildered as Draco felt. He was holding his shoulder. “Do you want water? Would that help?”

Draco shook his head. His throat ached as he managed to ask, “What was it? The memory?”

“You…you saw someone die. For the first time. Rowle killed him.”

“Who? Who did he kill?”

“I don’t know…you didn’t know his name…and I didn’t recognize him…”

Draco wiped his face. He felt pathetic.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“A bit.” Draco blinked a few times to clear his vision, and then squinted at his Mark. It was, indeed, paler than it had been.

“Looks better, right?” Potter said.

Draco brought his hands back up to cover his face. “I’m so tired,” he murmured.

“We’ll stay here as long as you need. Take your time.”

For several minutes, neither of them spoke. Crying had been cathartic, as though someone had wrung every last emotion out of his body. He had room for little else than the numb exhaustion that permeated him. He told himself that Potter was there. That it would be fine. That nothing bad could happen to him as long as Potter was there. Suddenly, he said, “You called me Draco.”

“Mmm?” Potter shifted. After a moment, he said, “Oh. Right. I guess I did.”

“Must’ve really scared you,” Draco mumbled, trying to taunt him but incapable of mustering up the strength.

“You did,” he said earnestly. “And anyway, it seems stupid now, doesn’t it? I can’t go around calling you Malfoy for the rest of our lives.”

“I hate my last name. Hate it.”

“Why’s that?”

“ _Mal foi_. It’s French. Means bad faith. Deception. Making a promise you don’t intend to keep.”

“I’ll call you Draco.”

Draco rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “And what’s Potter mean, then?”

“Er…I dunno, actually,” Potter said. Draco snorted. “Never looked into it. Anyway, it doesn’t matter—we’re on first name basis, now.”

“Harry,” Draco said, testing the sound on his lips. It wasn’t unpleasant. Frightened by the way his heart squeezed in his chest, Draco snapped, “Don’t think this changes anything. You’re still a big prat.”

“And you’re an insufferable git,” Harry said. Draco could hear the smile in his voice.

“Glad that’s settled.”

“Yeah.”

Draco lay on the blanket, listening to the rhythmic sound of Harry’s breathing. As the pain in his arm subsided, he examined his Mark again. Harry was right. It was much lighter than it had been. A warm, hopeful feeling tentatively bloomed in his chest.

***

Draco always looked forward to the first frost of the season. This year, he was not disappointed: the grounds were beautiful beneath the thin layer of icy dew. He, Blaise, and Pansy crunched through the stiff grass as they met their Herbology class near the Quidditch pitch. They huddled together, dressed warmly in earmuffs and fur-lined cloaks, as Sprout reminded them that their sketches were due by the end of the term. Although he would never admit it, Draco was very grateful for Pansy, who had been meticulously consulting their list to ensure that they sketched any plants that might go dormant come winter.

“Now see here, everyone,” Sprout said. She was wrapped in an enormous, woolly coat; it was not unlike something Hagrid might have worn. “Look at Ms. Granger’s work. See how she’s labeled everything? _And_ she’s referenced the pages in her textbook. This is exactly the sort of work I expect. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

Draco rolled his eyes—as if he, Blaise, and Pansy hadn’t done the same. Draco sneered at Granger, who was blushing, when he caught Harry’s eye. Harry shrugged, grinning. Suddenly self-conscious, Draco looked away, forcing himself to focus on Sprout as she listed the many virtues of Granger’s work. Finally, they were dismissed. The class dispersed, several of them grumbling about the cold.

“We’ll do spruce today,” Pansy announced, consulting her list.

“I hate sketching evergreens,” Blaise moaned as they trudged along after her. “I can never get the needles right.”

“Where should we sit?” Pansy asked, ignoring him. They chose a spot by the edge of the forest—not too far, Draco realized, from where he and Harry met. Blaise conjured another set of cushions and they nestled into the grass. Draco’s sketch came together quickly. He was getting better now, he thought, at picking up those finer details he might have missed before.

“I swear all trees look the same,” Blaise said, flipping through his textbook. “How many more do we have left?”

“Just a few,” Pansy said. She was bent over, her nose nearly touching the parchment as she carefully labeled her drawing.

“Mine’s wonky.” Blaise held out his sketch, frowning at it. “It looks crooked.”

Draco shrugged. “Maybe you sketched a crooked tree.”

“Maybe.” Blaise shook his head as he dipped his quill back into his inkpot. “I’m just tired. This week’s been terrible.”

“Let’s go for a drink tomorrow,” Pansy said. “I’ll write Theo. He can bring Lavender.”

“Wish I could bring Kevin,” Blaise muttered. “Only eighth-years are supposed to leave unless it’s a Hogsmeade weekend, and he’s a real stickler for the rules.” Even as he complained, he had a grin on his face.

“I’m glad. He’ll be a good influence on you.” Pansy looked over at Draco. “You’ll come too, won’t you, Draco?”

“Sure.”

“You enjoyed yourself, last time.”

“Oh, yes, it was great fun,” he said idly. “Fainting in the middle of Hogsmeade is how I like to spend my free time, you know.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Draco wished he could take them back.

“Then you admit that you fainted,” Pansy said sharply.

Draco frowned at her. “I think I was coming down with something.”

“You really are a terrible liar,” Pansy muttered. Blaise sniggered.

“Anyway,” Draco pressed on, pretending that she hadn’t spoken, “you said I need to focus on my N.E.W.T.s. I shouldn’t waste my time at the pub.”

“Everyone needs a break.”

They sat in silence. All three of them had abandoned their sketchbooks. Stretching out, Draco watched as the trees swayed gently in the wind. Suddenly, Blaise said, “My mother wrote me the other day.”

“Oh?” Pansy had tilted her head back and was looking up at the sky. “How is she?”

“Fine. But she asked about you, Draco.”

“Me?” Draco asked, immediately suspicious. “What about me?”

“She wanted to know why you haven’t been writing your mother,” Blaise said. “I told her it isn’t our business, but you know how she gets…”

Draco bristled. “You’re right. It isn’t your business.”

Blaise scoffed. “Don’t be cross with me. I’m just relaying the message.”

“Which is?”

“She misses you, apparently. I can't imagine why.”

“I _told_ you,” Pansy cried. “She’s worried, Draco! Your mother’s not this awful person you make her out to be.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Draco said. Avoiding their gazes, he rolled his quill between his fingers, urging himself to stay calm. He didn’t want to shout at them again. Of course, that wasn’t easy when they insisted on prying.

“We heard what she did at the Battle, Draco. She was looking for you. She was scared. And she lied to V-Voldemort.” Draco looked up in surprise; Pansy almost never managed to utter his name. Emboldened, Pansy said, “She lied for _you_. To save you.”

“I suppose I should be grateful, then, that she saved me,” Draco spat. “Saved me from the mess _they_ created.”

“When are you going to let that go?” Pansy said harshly. “They didn’t know. Nobody could have known how it would turn out.”

Draco stared at her, speechless. Finally, he said, “You think that’s the problem? That Voldemort didn’t win? You think I’m angry because they picked the losing side?”

Pansy shook her head. She looked frightened. Her fear only doubled his anger.

“They should have never— _never_ —the things they did, you don’t know, you have no idea.” He was rambling, he knew. But there was no way to put into words the terrible things he had seen, no way to convey the depths of depravity he had witnessed. “I didn’t know, when I started. Or, no, I knew. But I didn’t get it. Didn’t understand. Honestly, I believed what my parents said. _All of it._ I really thought Muggles were oppressing us, you know, and I thought that was unfair. I thought to myself, well, why should we have to hide? Why do we need all these departments to make sure we’re safe, to make sure the Muggles never find out about us? And…” His voice broke off. Draco took a deep breath, and then continued, “I really believed it. That we’re better. Because…because we’re…”

“Pure-bloods,” Blaise muttered. He was staring at the ground. Pansy, meanwhile, had a stunned look on her face.

“Right,” he growled. A fresh wave of anger rose up in him at the sound of that word. “You two, you have no idea what was happening. Death Eaters were _killing_ people.”

“We do know,” Pansy said softly. “We do, Draco.”

“You know it,” he said shortly. “But you don’t understand it. You have no idea what it’s like to be forced to torture someone.”

Both Pansy and Blaise winced.

“You can’t even listen to me talk about it. So don’t you dare—don’t you _dare_ tell me how I should feel about it.”

“I’m not, Draco,” Pansy insisted. “What I’m saying is, what good does it do, to be angry at your mother? What does it change?”

“It’s not about _changing_ anything,” he snapped. “I’m angry. I’m allowed to be angry.”

“Of course you are,” Pansy said soothingly. “But she’s your mother.”

An awkward silence stretched between them. Draco was tired of these conversations. They never led anywhere. Why couldn’t they understand that he wanted to be left alone?

“Well, anyway,” Blaise said, breaking the silence in a weary tone, “my mother did have some good news. Your father’s lawyers will be appealing soon, and they think they have good odds.”

“Great,” he said. He didn’t know what to feel, and so he felt nothing. “That’s really great.”

Pansy gave him a hopeful smile. “Maybe he can come with us, for the summer holidays, you know…”

“Sure. Maybe.”

Draco didn’t have the heart to tell them that he had zero intention of joining their holiday across Europe, whether his parents accompanied them or not. In fact, he couldn’t think of a worst way to spend the summer. Even at Hogwarts, away from his parents’ friends, Draco was still pestered by their nosiness. And he had no idea where they stood on everything—truth be told, he was surprised at how quickly his parents had been accepted back into the fold. Almost as if their friends weren’t bothered that they had hosted Voldemort at the Manor. Almost as if they didn’t mind that he and his father were former—or, as Pansy always reminded him, defected—Death Eaters.

The fact of the matter was that he didn’t want to be around people who associated with one another on the basis of their pure-blood status. It was a stupid reason to be friends with someone. Plenty of them, his parents didn’t even particularly like—after every holiday, every dinner, every cocktail party, his parents spent the next week gossiping. It was one of their favourite pastimes. Blaise’s mother, apparently, was running out of money so quickly that she was desperate to marry again, while Goyle’s father was so stupid they couldn’t understand how he managed to dress himself in the morning. Theo’s father, meanwhile, was derided for his insistence on having only pure blood when, in fact, everyone knew he had several Muggle ancestors. And they had plenty to say about Pansy’s parents and their business dealings. Draco had always wondered what these “friends” said about his own parents.

Draco’s reverie was broken by Pansy, who said softly, “We should get back. I’m starving.”

They packed their things in silence, Draco refusing to look their way. Everything he had known was crumbling. The bedrock upon which his parents had built their lives—and, accordingly, his own life—was disintegrating, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he was glad of it.

***

Draco couldn’t help but smirk when he saw the blanket Harry had conjured: blue with a bronze border. “I thought you said I’m spoiled.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m switching things up.”

“Still not green, though, I see.”

“We’ll work up to it.” Harry reached for Draco’s arm. “I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Yes, yes, you don’t need to ask every time.”

As Harry took Draco’s arm and pushed up his sleeve, he said, “We had Quidditch practice after dinner. It was awful.”

“Why?”

“Well…” Harry leaned in to examine Draco’s Mark. “Ginny’s being really awkward. I think they’re all nervous, because it’s the first match of the season, you know?” Draco winced as Harry pressed hard on his arm. “Sorry,” he said quickly.

“Afraid to be beaten by Slytherin,” Draco said, trying to keep his face neutral as his arm throbbed.

“Yeah…probably…and Ron’s stressed, because it’s our last year, so he wants to do well, wants to win the Cup…” Harry sighed to himself. “And then Demelza, she was on him about not tending the middle hoop. So then they started going at it, and then Ginny got involved, and then I sort of—sort of lost my temper, I guess, but it’s just so _annoying_ —and now she’s mad at me.”

“And that’s why she’s awkward,” Draco surmised.

“Yeah.” Harry took out his wand. “I guess so.”

“And your Beaters?”

“Fine, for now.” Harry shrugged. “I miss when Quidditch used to be fun.”

“Can’t you make someone else captain?”

Harry looked up at him, surprised. “I mean, there’s Ron. But he’s barely keeping it together as it is.” Giving him a rueful smile, he added, “He’d kill me, if he knew I was telling you all this.”

Draco glanced away. He didn’t know what to say. He liked the idea of sharing a secret between them—something nobody else knew. And he liked even more that Harry was confiding in him about Weasley, his best friend. He wondered, vaguely astonished, how he had earned his trust.

“Anyway,” Harry said, “you don’t care about all this.” He pressed the tip of his wand to Draco’s Mark. “Ready?” Draco nodded. “Three…two…one…”

_It was blisteringly hot out. They were the rearguard—keeping watch in case any Aurors appeared. The air was thick, humid, oppressive, and yet Draco found himself trembling. His wand kept slipping in his sweaty palm. The others were bored; hidden in the woods, they couldn’t see or hear what was happening in the little house._

_“Think they’ll get her?” Mr. Crabbe asked in his low, gruff voice._

_“Should do,” Greyback muttered. He had begun pacing again—Draco winced whenever he came too close._

_“They’re taking forever,” Mr. Crabbe moaned._

_Draco shrugged. He didn’t trust himself to speak. It had been days since he’d eaten—his anxiety dampened any appetite he might have had—but he was still overcome with nausea. The heat didn’t help._

_“We’ll be here ‘til midnight,” Greyback groused._

_Silently, Draco urged them to hurry up. He had seen before how Greyback amused himself when he was bored. But he needn’t have worried—there was a sudden loud_ bang _, followed by several shouts._

_“Must’ve done her in,” Mr. Crabbe said, craning his neck to see._

_Moments later, Macnair, Mulciber, and Rowle came rushing towards them. Draco knew immediately that they had succeeded—they had terrible grins on their faces as they ducked under the cover of the forest. Macnair, Draco noted with a little surge of satisfaction, was gripping his arm; it hung at an odd angle._

_“Took long enough,” Mr. Crabbe groaned. “She’s just one witch, for fuck’s sake…”_

_“Didn’t go down easy, I’ll give her that,” Mulciber said, spitting on the ground. His teeth were bloody. “They’ll know, now, not to cross the Dark Lord.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve._

_“Let’s get out of here, then,” said Greyback, looking over his shoulder. “Aurors’ll be here any minute.”_

_“Hang on, hang on,” Macnair snapped. His face was pale. “Rowle, fix my arm, would you…”_

_“Hold still,” Rowle drawled, pulling out his wand. “Stretch your arm out, go on.”_

_Macnair did as he was told, howling in pain when Rowle prodded his arm and it snapped into place. Draco took a step back, worried he might retch. Mr. Crabbe was laughing._

_“Sensitive, isn’t he?” Greyback asked, coming to stand next to Draco. He recoiled from Greyback’s vicious face. “Hasn’t your father done enough to toughen you up?”_

_“His father’s weak,” Macnair panted. He was leaning against an ash tree, still clutching his arm. “I keep telling the Dark Lord that he needs to be put under my care…I could manage him, make sure he succeeds…”_

_“You think it’s your place to advise the Dark Lord?” Rowle asked._

_“Of course not,” Macnair snapped. He was gaining colour back in his face. “Still, though…I’m waiting for my reward, for my success with Golgomath....” Draco cowered under the look Macnair gave him. There was a pregnant pause, and then Draco jumped as they heard someone shouting._

_“Go, go,” Rowle hissed, and they all Apparated…the last thing Draco saw was Macnair’s face, still leering at him…_

Draco gasped as the cold night air hit his face. The pain in his Mark shot through to the tips of his fingers, the crook of his elbow. He gave a low groan as Harry gripped his wrist. Looking over, Draco was shocked at what he saw—Harry was angry. His lips were thin and he had a harsh look on his face, glaring at Draco’s Mark as he swept away the final remnants of his memory. When at last he was finished, he pulled his wand away, still staring at the Mark.

Draco spoke first. “Is it—what’s wrong?”

Harry looked up at him. “What?”

“My Mark?”

He shrugged. “The same.”

Draco drew his arm away, suddenly fearful. He tried to recall what they had just witnessed, but whatever memory they had just been subjected to had already trickled away. “Did I do something terrible?” he whispered.

Harry blinked at him. Slowly, he shook his head. “Not really. You were just waiting around. Macnair, though…”

Draco looked away at the sound of that name. Harry couldn’t have seen anything too horrible, because he could still remember the worst moments…but then, he realized with a start, perhaps there had been other times, even worse than those he could recall…but he wouldn’t know, now, would he?”

“What did you see?” he breathed.

“He didn’t do anything.” Harry sat back, considering him. Finally, he said, “He wanted to do…he wanted to do something terrible to you, didn’t he? Something…something really bad…”

Draco could barely swallow around the lump that had formed in his throat. The dull ache in his arm seemed to deepen. He didn’t want Harry’s sympathy—he didn’t want anyone’s sympathy.

“That’s how it was,” Draco said quietly. He turned his head and watched as the wet grass rustled in the breeze. “That’s what they did.”

“It’s disgusting.”

Draco had perhaps never seen Harry’s face so cold. That word rung in his ears. _Disgusting._ A hot ball of shame swelled up in his chest.

“Can you tell me what he did?” Harry asked, now pulling clumps of grass from the ground.

Draco shook his head. He couldn’t bear to say.

“Is it…is it bad?”

Draco wanted to lie, but there was no point. It seemed that all of his darkest memories would be rifled through and examined before the end of this, and anyway, maybe it was better to warn him, to prepare him for what he was going to see. Very slowly, he nodded. He heard Harry inhale.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut as he said, “I don’t know why this keeps coming up. What’s this got to do with my Mark?”

“The two times Hermione and I tried it,” Harry said softly, “she said neither of my memories were about my scar. Not really. One of them was about the Dursleys—the Muggle family I grew up with—and the other was about Sirius. My godfather.”

“Why?”

“Dunno. Hermione said it’s just…whatever our minds put together, you know…the worst memories, maybe, or the ones that really represent Voldemort, what he’s done to us, how our lives were shaped by him…”

“I don’t want you to see it.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.” Harry hesitated, and then said, “But I won’t tell anyone. And maybe it won’t come up. But if it does…then you’ll have forgotten, right?”

Draco hated himself for the tremble in his voice as he said, “You don’t understand. It’s _bad_. It’s foul. It’s disgusting, like you said. And then you’re going to think _me_ disgusting.”

“What?” There was a deafening silence as Harry stopped ripping the grass from the earth. Draco didn’t dare look up at him. “You think…you think…I didn’t mean it like that. Draco. Look at me. Hey.” He felt Harry’s hand on his arm. “Look at me.” Draco shook his head, refusing. “I don’t think _you’re_ disgusting. Fuck, that’s not what I meant…you have to know that’s not what I meant…”

Draco shrugged him away and sat up. For a moment, he was dizzy—the forest swam around him. And still Harry went on: “I’d never, _never_ think that, you have no idea…I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry…”

“Forget it,” Draco grunted. He pulled his sleeve over his Mark, avoiding Harry’s gaze. “It’s fine.”

“You aren’t disgusting. Not at all.”

“I heard you.”

“Can I…?” Harry took a deep breath. He had an expression on his face not unlike the one he had worn while facing the Hungarian Horntail. God, that felt like it had happened in another lifetime. “I’m going to hug you. Alright?”

Draco blanched. If it weren’t for the strange look on Harry’s face, he would have thought he’d misheard. He didn’t know how to react to the flighty, shaky feeling coursing through him, and his disorientation made him irritable. “Go on, then,” he heard himself saying. “Get it over with, if it’s so important to you.”

And then Harry’s arms were around him. It was a bit awkward—they were sitting at an odd angle from each other and Harry had to lean past Draco’s knees, which were drawn to his chest—but he found that he didn’t mind. Harry smelled like fresh laundry. And he was warm. And very much solid, and very much _real_ , his arms around Draco’s neck, giving him a tight squeeze. After a beat, Draco lifted his hand and patted Harry’s back. He had the uncomfortable realization that he had only hugged a handful of people in his life—his parents (and even then, mostly his mother), a few distant relatives he was forced to interact with on holidays, and Pansy. And it wasn’t…it wasn’t the worst thing he had ever felt…a chest pressed against his, an elbow digging into his knee, two arms wrapped around his neck …and the fact that it was Harry made it perhaps better, he thought, if only because he was so warm…

As Harry shifted back, Draco rearranged his face into as neutral an expression as he could muster. Surely Harry must be able to hear his heart galloping in his chest. But if he did, he didn’t comment. Instead, he reached out and pulled Draco’s arm into his lap again, studying the Mark as though nothing had happened. Eventually, he said in a solemn voice, “What he did—whatever it is—that’s what’s disgusting. I just…I don’t…” Harry sighed. “I don’t like the thought of him touching you. I can’t stand it.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He didn’t dare breathe. Harry’s face was still very pale.

“Whatever happened, I’ll never tell anyone,” said Harry. “I swear.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll never…it doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t change how I think of you. You’re _not_ disgusting,” Harry said firmly.

“But you feel sorry for me.”

“I just wish I’d known. Maybe I could’ve stopped it.”

Draco shrugged. “I’m alive, aren’t I? Horrible things happened to lots of innocent people. And I’m not innocent. I did plenty of…plenty of really, really awful…”

“I wish you’d accepted,” Harry said, cutting him off. He had a pained look on his face. “When Dumbledore offered to help you. I wish you’d accepted.”

Draco drew his arm away, shaking his head. He had already played this game thousands of times—reimagined history, reimagined how his life might have gone if he had made different, perhaps better, choices. “Well, I didn’t,” he said flatly. “And I’ve suffered for it, believe me.”

“Nobody— _nobody_ deserves—”

“Let’s get back,” Draco said suddenly, forcing himself to stand. “It’s cold out.”

“Wait—you need to listen to me. Whatever you did—”

“ _Stop it,_ ” Draco hissed, wheeling around to glower at him. “Stop trying to rewrite everything. You have no idea what I’ve done. No idea.”

“I’ve _seen_ ,” Harry insisted, scrambling to his feet. “I’ve seen stuff you don’t even remember. I know things you don’t know, because you’ve forgotten. There’s loads of stuff—your parents, Voldemort, the other Death Eaters—”

“I don’t want you feeling sorry for me!” Draco snapped. “And I don’t want you excusing me. Just stop. I mean it.” He let out a shaky exhale. “Just stop.”

Harry regarded him coolly. “How are we supposed to be friends, if you keep shutting me out?”

Draco bristled; Harry’s words echoed Pansy’s, and that stung. In an effort to hide his unease, he sneered, “Oh, we’re friends, now, are we?”

“Yeah.” Harry said it as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

As frustrated as he was, Draco couldn’t stop the peculiar little squeeze his heart gave. That word— _friends_ —both pleased and dismayed him. In his confusion, he chose once again to lash out. “Great. First rule of being my friend: leave me the fuck alone.”

Harry shook his head. “No. I’m not going to do that.”

“You’re impossible, Potter,” he snarled.

“Harry.”

“Whatever. Can we _please_ get back to the castle?”

Harry rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. “Fine. Have it your way.” As he Vanished the blanket and pillow, Draco couldn’t help but shrink back a bit. He didn’t want them to fight. And he didn’t want them to stop being friends after Harry had just announced that they were. Why did he insist on ruining anything good in his life?

As Harry ambled towards him, hands in his pockets, Draco pulled together his courage. “I don’t want to fight. I’m sick of it.”

Slowly, Harry said, “Alright. I don’t want to fight, either.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Yeah.” A little smile appeared on his face, tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re still my friend, though, even if we _do_ fight. Just so you know. I mean, Ron and I fight loads.”

“Okay. Well.” Draco didn’t know what to say. He knew that his face was red. In one sense, he liked that Harry had equivocated their strange, complicated relationship to his friendship with Weasley. But something deep within him, some small little voice that refused to be completely snuffed out, complained that he didn’t want to be another Ron Weasley for Harry. Utterly useless at understanding his own emotions, let alone expressing them, he settled for, “That’s fine.”

Harry laughed and gently bumped his shoulder into Draco’s, leading him up the path out of the forest. Draco followed, mystified at himself.

***

At first, Draco felt sorry for Brown—or Lavender, rather, as she insisted they call her. Squeezed between four Slytherins in the corner of the pub, it would have been easy to feel intimidated, or out of place. But Lavender easily held her own, interrogating them about their eighth year at Hogwarts and leading them in a discussion of the Wanderers’ chances against Puddlemere. The results of Greyback’s attack were visible even in the dim light of the pub: several scars extended from her brow down the side of her face, reaching back behind her ear and disappearing beneath her hair. They seemed not to bother her at all. The entire thing was disconcerting—Draco found it difficult to imagine that the woman in front of him had once been the rather silly girl he had gone to school with.

“And what about the castle?” Lavender asked, looking around at them. “Have they managed to repair it?”

“Just about!” Pansy said happily. Draco had the impression that she was enjoying herself very much—sat primly on the edge of her seat, drinking the same red wine as Lavender, she had taken it upon herself to ensure that everything ran smoothly. “Wouldn’t you say, Draco? Blaise?”

“They’ve finally got the pitch sorted,” Blaise said. Addressing Theo, he added, “First match of the season coming up.”

Theo had his arm around the back of Lavender’s chair. He grinned at Blaise. “Slytherin versus Gryffindor. I’ll be sad to miss it.”

Blaise gestured towards Draco. “This one isn’t playing, so I don’t know about our odds.”

“You aren’t playing for Slytherin, Draco?” Lavender asked, surprised. “Why not? You were a good Seeker.”

Draco took a long swig of firewhisky. When they continued to stare at him, he shrugged. “Too busy this year. With my N.E.W.T.s, you know.”

“He’s lying,” Blaise said at once. Pansy laughed. “He barely spends any time studying.”

“Sod off,” Draco muttered, scowling at them.

Pansy turned to Lavender. “How is it working at the Ministry, then?”

“Oh, it’s alright,” Lavender said. “The Floo panel isn’t the most interesting department, is it? And what I do isn’t difficult; I just review the requests to connect grates by Floo. If I approve them, it’s Theo’s side that sets everything up.”

“She’s not giving herself proper credit.” Theo sat up straighter in his chair. “It can take hours, getting through these applications. And you have to check everything—some of them are trying to set up networks in Muggle homes, you know, or places they haven’t got permission to enter. You have to be really careful. And then if you reject them, they can appeal, and that’s a whole other process…”

Lavender ducked her head, smiling. “It’s _paperwork_ , Theo _._ It’s really not that exciting.”

“It is!” he insisted. “Tell them about that wizard trying to get to Gibraltar, the one with the funny cat.”

“They don’t want to hear about that,” said Lavender.

“They do! Tell them.” Addressing the group, Theo said, “She’s got loads of good stories. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of people she has to deal with. Go on, Lav, tell them…”

Blaise and Draco smirked at each other.

“It’s really not—well, alright, it _was_ sort of funny, but—” Lavender glanced up, and then her face broke into a big smile. “Hermione!”

There was a great deal of commotion as Lavender jumped out of her chair and ran towards the front of the pub. Turning back, Draco’s stomach did a strange series of gymnastics as he watched Lavender throw her arms around Granger, who looked very startled. Weasley stood next to them, talking excitedly, and beside him was Harry. Their faces were red from having just been outdoors.

“Oh, here we go,” Blaise muttered as Lavender returned to their table with the other Gryffindors in tow.

“Be nice,” Pansy hissed.

Theo was already levitating another table towards theirs. As they drew closer, Granger and Weasley gave them tight smiles, chattering with Lavender as they took off their cloaks. Draco looked past them and up at Harry. For a moment, their eyes met. Harry smiled softly at him before turning to greet Theo, who had stood to clasp his hand. They shuffled around to make room for three more chairs; Draco pretended not to notice as Harry sat across from him.

“Shall I get us another round, then?” Pansy asked, somewhat breathlessly.

“I’ll come with you,” Blaise said, slipping out of his chair.

 _‘Traitors,’_ Draco thought. He felt very exposed without Pansy and Blaise next to him.

“This is so nice!” Lavender was saying. “We should’ve asked you to come! This was all sort of last-minute—Pansy only wrote Theo this morning, so I guess it slipped our minds…”

Granger’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. She glanced at Theo, and then back at Lavender. But the moment passed, and she smiled at them as she said, “That’s alright. We weren’t planning to come, either, but we thought it might be nice to get out of the castle for a while.”

“Is it only you three, then, back from Gryffindor?” Lavender asked.

“Oh, no,” said Granger. “Neville’s doing his eighth year, too, and so are Dean and Seamus.”

Draco didn’t know where to look. At the end of the table, Weasley was glaring at him, clearly unhappy with the present arrangement. Harry, meanwhile, was as unbothered as ever, studying Draco as though he were an interesting plant they were sketching in Herbology.

“It’s nice to see all of you,” Theo said, leaning towards them. “Lav talks about you three all the time.”

“Not _all_ the time,” she said. “Only, well…some of it was rather funny, wasn’t it? Ron, you and I, in sixth year…”

They laughed as Weasley’s face turned an unflattering shade of red. Draco smirked at the memory of Weasley and Lavender snogging around the castle…Weasley, he recalled, had all but eaten Lavender’s face.

“Feels like ages ago, doesn’t it?” Lavender mused. “But now, Hermione and Ron, aren’t you two dating?”

It was Granger’s turn to blush. “Yes. We…well…yes.”

They were interrupted as Blaise and Pansy returned with several bottles of firewhisky. Once again, they shuffled to make room. Weasley scowled as Blaise passed him a drink.

As they settled back in, Lavender tilted her bottle towards Granger and Weasley. “I knew it would happen,” she said, winking at them. “Theo and I, though, we never spoke at school. I think even _we_ were surprised when we started seeing each other.”

Weasley must not have realized what was happening until that moment—Harry had to thump his back as he suddenly choked on his firewhisky. Granger threw a disapproving glare at him before turning back to Lavender. “You both work in the same department, then?”

“Floo Office, yeah,” Theo said. “Actually, that reminds me—Draco.”

Draco froze, bottle of firewhisky halfway to his mouth. In a moment of panic, he wondered whether Theo was about to invite him to Azkaban again. Right in front of everyone.

“There’s an opening at the Ministry,” he said. “Magical Law Enforcement. They need someone to brew potions, you know, Polyjuice and Veritaserum, stuff like that. Thought I’d put your name forward.”

“But that would be perfect!” Pansy gasped. She turned to face Theo as though it was the cleverest idea she had ever heard. “Draco is _brilliant_ at Potions. And think how interesting it would be!”

“You’d be great,” Theo agreed. “I can put your name forward. I’ll have to check who’s hiring, but it shouldn’t be a problem. You’ll need a letter of recommendation, though.”

“Slughorn,” Lavender suggested. “He’s still your Head of House, isn’t he? He’s got all kinds of connections at the Ministry.”

Draco and Pansy exchanged a dark look. But Theo didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, Slughorn would be perfect, if you can manage it. Could you ask him next week?”

Everyone at the table was staring at him. He didn’t want to explain his argument with Slughorn, but he also didn’t want to disappoint Theo, who had such a sincere look on his face. As quietly as he could, Draco said, “I don’t think Slughorn will write me a letter.”

“What?” Theo frowned. “Why not? He’s always liked you.”

“We’ve had a bit of a disagreement,” Draco said stiffly.

“What about? Not…not what happened last year, surely?” Theo shifted nervously. “That’s all been cleared by the Ministry…he must read the papers…”

“It’s not that.” Draco took a deep breath, sitting back in his chair.

There was an awkward silence until Pansy, whose face was flushed, burst out, “He’s awful! I’ve never liked him. I always thought he was arrogant.”

Blaise cocked an eyebrow. “Can one of you explain what’s going on?”

Draco did not want to have this conversation. Granger and Weasley were listening closely, no doubt eager to hear his business. Harry, meanwhile, was scowling.

“He’s an idiot,” Pansy said scathingly. “He said there have been complaints about Draco’s marks, and that it would be better if he just left Hogwarts without sitting his N.E.W.T.s."

“Thanks, Pansy,” Draco said bitterly.

“What?” Theo exchanged a surprised look with Lavender. “That’s…that’s not fair. You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Of course he’s not,” Harry suddenly said. It was the first time he had spoken since arriving. “Who cares what Slughorn thinks?”

Emboldened by Harry’s support, Pansy slapped her hand down onto the table. Their bottles shook ominously. “Exactly! What does it matter? You have to finish your N.E.W.T.s, Draco.”

“I’m going to,” he grumbled.

Lavender set down her glass of wine. “I’m not going to pretend I know everything that’s happened,” she said quietly. “But you had a shock, last year. We all did. So they can’t act as though everything’s normal.”

There was a moment of silence as they considered her words. Very softly, Granger said, “Lavender’s right. It’s not easy to jump back into things.”

Their pity grated on him. Draco wanted to deny what they were saying, to insist that he was fine, but he feared he would lash out if he opened his mouth.

“Why don’t you go to McGonagall, mate?” Theo said.

Draco shrugged. He desperately wanted them to look away, to talk about something else. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, alright? Slughorn just thought I’d be better off elsewhere. I told him I’m staying, and he dropped it.”

“He shouldn’t have suggested you leave in the first place!” Pansy cried.

“Pansy. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Harry said. He had crossed his arms.

“See? Po—Harry agrees,” Pansy said, as though that settled it.

Draco glanced over at the end of the table. Weasley was dumbfounded, Granger was staring down at her hands, and Harry looked furious. This was ridiculous.

Finally, Blaise said, “Potter—how’s your team looking? He’s captain again this year,” he told Theo.

Draco sat back and listened, nursing his drink. The situation felt surreal. Although Pansy and Blaise were probably only being courteous with their future prospects in mind—they were, after all, Slytherins—he still found himself stunned as they carried on a normal conversation. In ordinary circumstances, Draco would have been thrilled at the nonplussed look on Weasley’s face when Blaise complimented his skill as a Keeper, but he was too overwhelmed. It wasn’t only the noise, the heat, the crowd in the Three Broomsticks—it was the bizarre experience of watching these people, who for years had been at odds, gossip about their classmates and talk about Quidditch. He suspected that Harry found it equally disconcerting. Across the table, he was following the conversation closely, though he contributed very little. His hair was still messy from having come outside; he was biting the corner of his lip as he listened to what Weasley was saying.

He looked nice. The thought hit Draco so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that for a moment his fingers slipped around his bottle. As he fumbled, Blaise muttered, “Alright, Draco?”

“Yeah. Just slipped.” He set his firewhisky onto the table, afraid he was going to have one of his flashbacks. But it didn’t come. Instead, Draco felt oddly giddy, as though he was excited for something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He pretended to examine the label on his bottle as he took stock of himself. He was jumpy, uneasy, his stomach doing all kinds of twists and turns. Draco was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t realize they were leaving until Blaise tapped his shoulder. Embarrassed, he only then noticed that everyone was standing up, pulling on their cloaks. He scrambled to do the same, eager to escape into the cold night air. Their little crowd spilled out onto the empty street, Pansy already demanding that Theo and Lavender visit them again soon.

“Write to me when you lot are planning a night out,” Theo said, hugging Pansy. “We should be able to make it.”

“This was nice,” said Lavender.

“It _was_ nice,” Granger agreed. She sounded surprised.

As the others said their goodbyes, Theo clasped Draco’s hand. He hesitated, and then leaned in to say, “Let me know about that position at the Ministry, Draco. But it’s no pressure. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Draco said, forcing himself to smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Theo looked as though he wanted to say something else—Draco, his heart sinking, suspected it had something to do with visiting their fathers in Azkaban—but he was cut off by Lavender, who had taken his hand and was tugging at him. “Come on, Theo, I’d like to get home sometime this week.”

Theo gave him a sheepish grin and then allowed himself to be pulled away. As he and Lavender Apparated out of Hogsmeade, the rest of them were left with the uncomfortable realization that they would be walking back to Hogwarts together. They set off down the street in silence, nobody saying much. Luckily, they had Pansy, who soon roped Blaise into a detailed analysis of Theo’s relationship with Lavender. Before long, they were arguing about whether Theo and Lavender had already slept together or not. Draco trudged along next to them, watching Harry as he and his friends led them back to the castle. He still hadn’t shaken that odd feeling in the pit of his stomach.


	3. Entanglement

“Blaise and Pansy,” Harry said as he examined Draco’s Mark. “They fight a lot.”

Draco shrugged. He was cold—the temperature had dipped several degrees, and he hadn’t dressed appropriately. “They’re like brother and sister. We’ve known each other for ages.”

“But you don’t fight with them.”

“I’m more discerning in choosing my battles,” he said wryly. Harry laughed.

“I had no idea Theo and Lavender were together.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “I’d forgotten she used to snog Weasley.”

“It’d be so much easier if you just called him Ron, you know,” Harry said. He rubbed Draco’s forearm with the palm of his hand. “Are you alright? You’re freezing.”

“Fine. And Weasley and I are perfectly happy on last name basis, thank you very much.”

“How about this?” Harry rolled Draco’s sleeve higher, taking care to fold it evenly. “You start calling my friends by their first names, and I’ll start conjuring a blanket in Slytherin colours. _And_ a pillow.”

“I quite like the blue.” Draco sniffed. “Sets off my eyes.”

Harry sniggered. He took out his wand and traced it along Draco’s Mark. He suddenly stopped, frowning. “Are you cold? You feel really cold.”

“I’m fine.” Draco nodded at his Mark. “Go on.” Harry rolled his eyes, but he complied, pressing the tip of his wand into Draco’s arm.

“I’ve noticed something,” Draco said. The words came out before he could stop them. “You have loads to say here, but you were quiet, the other night. At the Three Broomsticks.”

Harry paused, glancing up at him. For a moment, Draco wondered if he had offended him, or said the wrong thing. But Harry didn’t seem angry.

“I think…” Harry sat back, considering him. The tip of his wand still rested on Draco’s Mark. “I think I just find it weird, seeing you with your friends.”

“Why?” Draco asked, confused. “You have your friends, I have mine.”

“Yeah.” Harry went back to examining Draco’s arm, brows furrowed.

“Have I…have I said the wrong thing?”

“’Course not.” Harry leaned forward, eyes trained on the Mark. “Ready, then?” Draco nodded, not knowing what else to do. “Three…two…one…”

_The classroom smelled of citrus. Draco was ladling his bright orange potion into a vial, taking care not to spill any onto the workbench._

_“Bring your potions to the front, and you may leave. Mr. Malfoy, a word, if you please.”_

_Draco stiffened as the others scrambled to deposit their potions onto Severus’ desk and escape. Pansy leaned over to touch his arm. “Are you okay, Draco? Should I wait for you?”_

_He shook his head. “I’ll see you at dinner. It’s probably about my paper from last week.”_

_Pansy gave him a doubtful look but followed Blaise and Theo out of the room. Severus stayed seated at his desk, sorting through a pile of parchment. Sighing to himself, Draco swung his satchel over his shoulder and stalked to the front. Wordlessly, he set his vial next to the others. Still, Severus said nothing. Draco leaned against a desk, arms crossed, waiting to be addressed._

_“Your classmates have truly outdone themselves in producing illegible drivel this year,” Severus muttered. Glancing up, he asked, “Is there any particular reason you’re crossing your arms and scowling at me like a four-year-old?_

_Draco uncrossed his arms and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You wanted to speak to me?”_

_“I have an inkling of what you’re planning,” Severus said, pushing the pile aside. He clasped his hands on the desk and regarded Draco coolly. “And I’m curious whether you’ve lost the last shred of sense you once possessed.”_

_“I won’t let you talk to me like this,” Draco growled. “I’m in his circle, now. His inner circle. He trusts me with things.”_

_“He trusts you with nothing. He expects you to fail.”_

_“He doesn’t!” Draco cried. He had meant to keep his cool—he was sick of losing his temper—but his nerves were so frayed that it took nothing to set him off. “He knows I’ve done well, knows I almost have it…”_

_Severus rose to his feet. “Tell me what you’re planning. I can help you.”_

_“No! You don’t—I’ve almost got it, I just need a bit more time—he wouldn’t like it, anyway, us talking about this. It’s supposed to be a secret.”_

_“This past year, you’ve made nothing but poor decision after poor decision.”_

_“Whose side are you on?” Draco shouted; he couldn’t help himself. “It was_ his _idea to bring me in. To give me this job. So why are you questioning him? How can you tell me it was a bad idea to join him, when—”_

 _“Listen to me,” Severus hissed, coming around the desk to stand in front of him. “I know you think this will protect your parents. It will not_. _He will find other ways to punish them. And there is still the question of…” A pained expression flit across his face. “Macnair.”_

_Draco recoiled, nearly tripping over the desk. “Once I manage, he’ll leave me alone. The Dark Lord would never…he’ll protect me, once I…”_

_“As usual, you overestimate your own importance,” Severus snapped. “There may come a time when I can no longer protect you. And what then?”_

_They both winced as their Marks suddenly burned; Draco gasped, clasping his arm._

_“He’s angry,” Severus muttered. “We may be called tonight.”_

_“Tonight?” Draco repeated, horrified. “But we were only just there—they’re going to be suspicious, if we keep leaving…”_

_“Perhaps you should have thought about that, before you made such a foolish mistake.”_

_He knew they were going to be called. The pain in his arm was mounting, the blistering heat blinding him as it rippled through his skin, his muscles, his bones…_

Draco sat up and tried to rip away his arm, but Harry held it tightly, refusing to let him go. Snarling, he twisted his free hand into the blanket, trying to steady himself.

“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry…” Harry said. Finally, he took his wand away, and Draco crumbled back onto the blanket, panting. His arm continued to burn.

“Draco,” Harry muttered. “It’s lighter.”

He took a moment to regain his breath. In the meantime, Harry pulled his arm back into his lap, gently running his fingers across his forearm. His touch was soothing—like a cold balm, it drove the pain away, until finally only a dull ache lingered. As his pulse steadied, Draco leaned over to look at his arm. Harry was right—even against his pale skin, the Mark was a formless grey smudge. It could have been mistaken for a bruise.

“We could just leave it like this,” Harry said quietly. “And then you wouldn’t have to see any more memories.”

“No,” Draco rasped. His throat ached. “I want it gone. Completely.”

He was trembling, although whether from shock or the cold, he couldn’t say. He flipped through his memories, curious about whether they had erased one of the more revolting ones—but no, there it was, he remembered it as though it had just happened, Macnair’s sallow face so close to his that he could have spit on him, if he had dared.

Looking to distract himself, Draco asked, “What was it?”

Harry started, as though coming out of a reverie. “What?”

“The memory. What was it?”

“Oh, er…Snape.” Harry hesitated, considering him, and then said, “He was talking to you after class. About what you were doing for Voldemort. And you said you were close to managing it. And then your Marks burned…he was calling you, I think…”

Draco rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s weird, hearing about something I can’t remember anymore.”

Harry was still lightly scratching his fingernails along Draco’s forearm. “You don’t remember? Not at all?”

“I mean, it’s…” Draco reached back into his mind to grasp at the hazy memory. “It’s sort of there. But it’s locked away. It’s not like Obliviating someone, I don’t think. If I really tried, I could probably remember bits…I just, I don’t know, I have the sense that other memories are tied to that one, if you know what I mean…”

Where Harry’s fingers had been grazing across his skin, they suddenly stopped. “You’re shaking. Why are you shaking?”

“What?” Draco looked up at his anxious face. “I don’t know. It’s bloody cold out, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I asked earlier if you were cold,” Harry grumbled. Before Draco knew what was happening, Harry unbuttoned his cloak and then pulled his navy jumper over his head. His hair was now untidier than ever. “Here.” He offered Draco his jumper.

“I’m alright,” Draco said stiffly.

“Nobody’s going to see.” Sighing in exasperation, Harry stuffed the jumper into his hands. It was soft, well-worn. “I thought you said blue sets off your eyes.”

Unable to argue, Draco sat up and pulled it on. It was about as baggy on him as it had been on Harry, but it was warm. And, he thought vaguely to himself as he lay back down, it smelled of clean sheets and soap.

“It was sad,” Harry said. He was back to rubbing Draco’s arm. “Seeing Snape.”

Draco very much disliked talking about Severus, and it looked as though Harry felt the same. Finally, he said, “He did a lot for me. More than I realized, at the time.”

“He died before I got to thank him,” Harry muttered. “Did you know? About him and my mum?”

Draco shook his head. “There were a few times when my parents, I think they wondered…his Patronus, you know, and sometimes, the things he said…but they trusted him. Especially after he made the Vow.”

“Were you two close?”

“I don’t know.” Draco looked up at the bare branches swaying above them. “I guess so. He was my godfather.”

“What?” Harry sat up in surprise.

“Yeah.”

“Because he was friends with your father?”

“Not really,” he said. “I don’t think they were that close in school. From what I heard, he admired my father…My father was older, you know, and a Prefect, and he was in with the right sort…” Appalled, he quickly corrected himself. “Not the right sort. Not like that. God. They were awful. I just meant, you know, they had power, they seemed important…”

Harry dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I get what you mean.”

Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. “Well, anyway, my mother always liked him. She felt sorry for him, I think. This was all before my time, so I don’t really know the details, but she looked out for him. Told my father to go easy on him.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Anyway, it didn’t matter, because in the end my father was nothing, and Severus was one of the favourites. And then we found out he was Dumbledore’s man.”

“Was that a shock? For your parents?”

Draco smirked. “Probably. We’ve never really talked about it. We haven’t talked about much of anything, since…”

“Right.”

Harry drew his knees up to his chest, pulling his cloak around himself.

“Now _you’re_ cold,” Draco complained. “Come on, let’s get back.”

“Will you be okay? Walking back?”

“Yes, yes,” he snapped. “I have two legs, haven’t I?”

As Harry stood, Draco took a minute to compose himself. In truth, his head was still spinning, and his chest was tight, but if they waited for him to feel better, they would be in the forest until morning.

“Here,” Harry said, offering his hand.

Draco waved him away. “I’m fine. Just give me a second.”

“Don’t be a prat,” Harry said, reaching down for him. Draco relented, sighing loudly as he took Harry’s hand.

“You do realize,” Draco sneered as he slowly stood up, “that you could have just conjured another blanket for me? Or used a Warming Charm? You didn’t need to give me your beloved jumper.”

Harry shrugged. “I like you wearing it. You should keep it.”

Draco blinked at him. He was at a loss for words. And he wasn’t very impressed with Harry’s ability to say things that threw him off-kilter. Pursing his lips, he took his hand back. “If I keep this ratty thing, you’ll have nothing else to wear. It’s all I ever see you in.”

Harry turned to Vanish the blanket and pillow, a furtive smile on his face. “That’s a funny thing to notice.”

Mortified, Draco pulled the bloody jumper off as quickly as he could. He ignored Harry’s sniggering, his heart beating frantically in his chest. As Harry sorted out his cloak and jumper, Draco strode to the edge of the clearing. With his back turned to Harry, he felt along his throat, startled at how quickly his pulse was racing.

Was it so odd, to notice these things? It was normal, he had told himself stubbornly over the years. Everyone _looked_. And he couldn’t help it if there weren’t exactly that many good-looking blokes in their year, and if Harry just so happened to have the brightest green eyes he had ever seen. And he couldn’t help it, either, if Harry looked fantastic on his broomstick, all wiry strength and tanned skin and arrogant smile that Draco both did and did not loathe. And what was he supposed to do when Harry was so innately tactile, so physical, when he laughed so easily with his friends and wore his stupid navy jumper that looked so soft and so cozy? Even Blaise had admitted once, after several firewhiskies, that Harry wasn’t bad-looking. And for Blaise, that was very high praise indeed.

Bewildered, Draco followed Harry back to the castle. He kept as much distance between them as he could. He knew what was happening. Once again, it seemed, he had decided to betray himself. His perpetual attempts at self-sabotage knew no end. In a moment of panic, he wondered if perhaps Harry would be able to see what he felt, going through his memories. But no, he wouldn’t. It would never come up. Because whatever he felt for Harry, it was the exact opposite of all the misery and malevolence associated with his Mark. The two things could not have been more diametrically opposed.

***

Draco was in an unusually good mood when he arrived at breakfast the next morning. This meant, of course, that Pansy interrogated him the moment he sat down.

“What’s happened?” she asked, watching as he poured himself a cup of tea.

“What do you mean?” Draco asked. “Nothing’s happened.”

“Why are you so…” Pansy gestured towards him. “Cheerful? You hate mornings.”

“Well, I finished that stupid Transfiguration paper.” He pulled the basket of toast towards himself. “Pass me the butter, would you?”

Pansy gaped at him. “You haven’t eaten breakfast all term.”

“Studying works up my appetite.” He shrugged. “Butter, please.”

She relented, pushing the butter dish towards him as he stacked three pieces of toast onto his plate. “Are you coming down with something?”

“I feel fine.”

Pansy pressed her hand against his forehead. “You’re a bit warm,” she said, frowning. “Maybe you should see Pomfrey.”

Draco scoffed at her. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Morning,” Blaise said sleepily, coming to sit next to Pansy. “Paper’s not arrived yet?”

“Blaise,” Pansy said, still squinting at Draco. “Do you think Draco looks a bit peaky?”

Blaise leaned forward to study him. After a moment, he said, “No. He could use a haircut, though.”

Draco snorted, tossing a napkin at him. It landed in Pansy’s porridge.

“Draco!” she snapped, fishing it out. He and Blaise sniggered. “You two are so childish.”

They were interrupted as the post arrived—a copy of the _Prophet_ dropped neatly next to Pansy’s plate. “Oh, look, Draco,” Pansy said, smoothing out the front page. “Some of the Death—er, some of the defendants will be appealing next month.”

“Mmm.” Draco picked up a slice of toast with much less enthusiasm; he had suddenly lost his appetite.

“Blaise, stop staring!” Pansy hissed. “You look so desperate. You can’t just throw yourself at him!”

But Blaise was still smiling in the direction of the Hufflepuff table. Looking up, Draco saw Kevin Whitby wave at them.

“I’m still surprised you’re with a Hufflepuff, Blaise,” he gently teased. “I didn’t know they were your type.”

“What? Haven’t you heard?” Blaise smirked at him. “They’re patient and hardworking. In _all_ areas.”

Pansy choked on her porridge. Laughing, Draco pounded her back. He watched as Blaise winked in Whitby’s direction one last time.

***

In Potions, they were starting on anti-fungals. Not only were the effects rather dull, but the brewing process itself was tedious and complicated. Draco set up his cauldron as Slughorn reminded them to stir clockwise once, anti-clockwise twice, and then _half_ a stir clockwise before two more stirs widdershins.

“And don’t forget—alkaline water!” Slughorn called out, writing his directives on the blackboard. “You won’t appreciate the mess in your cauldron otherwise, I fear…”

“I had a letter from my mother last night,” Blaise said as he sharpened his knife. “You won’t believe the old duffer she’s been seeing. I met him once—ages ago, mind you—and he’s one of the worst she’s ever dated, I swear. I keep telling her, she needs to—”

Draco looked up as Blaise stopped speaking. He quickly realized why: Harry was standing in front of him, Potions kit in one hand, cauldron in the other.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Harry said. “Go ahead.”

“What?” Blaise asked, gawking at him. The sneer that had been there a moment earlier was wiped off his face.

Harry motioned for him to continue. Baffled, Blaise shook his head. “Er…it’s fine. It’s nothing important. Can I help you?”

Harry grinned at him. “Do you mind if we swap?”

“Swap?”

“Could I work here,” Harry said slowly, “and you work next to Seamus?”

Blaise glanced over at Finnigan, who was staring back at them. He seemed just as astonished as Blaise.

“He blows up stuff a lot less often these days,” Harry assured him. “And he’s got some good stories about his summer in County Kerry.”

“Well…” Blaise looked over at Draco, who shrugged. “Alright, then. Er, see you, Draco.”

Harry waited patiently as Blaise gathered his things and shifted over to the vacant bench next to Finnigan. Most of the class was now staring—Draco scowled at Weasley, who glared at him until Granger whispered angrily into his ear and he turned away.

“Hey,” Harry said, setting down his things.

“Hi.”

“Brass cauldron,” Harry noted, looking over at his bench. “Fancy.” He set up his own pewter cauldron before consulting his textbook. “Er…neem oil, onion juice…jewelweed…I’ll get it, hang on…”

Before Draco could respond, Harry headed for the store cupboard. Blaise looked back at him, eyes wide. “ _I don’t know,_ ” Draco mouthed. Had Harry finally lost his mind? Perhaps surviving the Killing Curse had permanently addled his brain…or maybe when he and Granger had tried to remove his scar, they had driven him mad…that wasn’t very reassuring…

Before Draco could get his bearings, Harry dumped a small pile of ingredients onto his workbench. “That should be everything.”

“What are you doing?” Draco hissed.

He blinked back innocently. “What? Are these not the right ingredients?”

“Harry!” Draco jumped at the sound of Slughorn’s voice. He was ambling towards them, a strained smile on his face. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course, sir.” Harry took his textbook out of his cauldron and held it up. “Just about to get started.”

“Good, good…” Slughorn said. His eyes drifted over to Draco, who stared back at him, equally puzzled. “Is there, ah, any particular reason you’ve changed spots today?”

“Oh. Well.” He gave Slughorn a sheepish look Draco had never seen him wear before. “This potion is really difficult. And Draco’s been giving me tips, you know, after class, helping me with my homework…so I thought it would be easier to just work next to him.”

Slughorn glanced between them. He looked as though he couldn’t discern whether this was a joke.

“I should have just sat next to him at the start of term,” Harry added. “But I didn’t want to bother him. I hope it’s not too annoying,” he said to Draco.

“Not at all,” Draco said faintly.

“It’s just that Draco is the best at Potions,” Harry said. Draco had to stop himself from rolling his eyes—he could not have been more obvious. “So I really need his help.”

“Well, then…good, good.” Slughorn clasped his hands. He made a show of peering into Draco’s cauldron. “Alkaline water, boys, don’t forget…” At last, he wandered away.

“I know what you’re doing,” Draco murmured.

“How should I cut this jewelweed?” Harry asked, pulling out his cutting board.

“You’re not fooling me.”

Harry leaned over the workbench, examining his textbook. “A fine dice, do you reckon? For the jewelweed?”

“Harry!” Draco whispered furiously. “You’re so transparent.”

Finally, Harry looked up from his textbook. “Yeah. I’m not a very subtle person.”

There was a pause. Draco didn’t know what to say. Had Harry’s eyes always been that bright? Surely, they hadn’t. He would have noticed. And what about that mischievous smile on his face? Had Draco ever seen it properly before? He felt queasy in the best way possible. Thoroughly disgusted with himself, Draco returned to his cauldron. As he lit the flame beneath, he said, “You don’t need to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Harry. I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t.” Picking up his knife, he said, “Fine dice it is, then.”

“You just need a rough chop,” Draco advised. “And start with your onions, you’ll want your jewelweed as fresh as possible.”

“See? Look how much I’m learning already.”

“Weasley isn’t pleased,” Draco noted darkly. Harry looked up in time to see Weasley glaring at them before Granger yanked on his arm.

“Don’t mind him,” said Harry. “He’ll come around.”

As they set about peeling and chopping their onions, Harry said, “Why did Slughorn say this potion is so complicated? It only has three ingredients.”

“Have you read the whole recipe?” Draco asked. “The brewing process is awful. You have to take it on and off the heat a few times…stir it one way, then the other…let it sit for exactly thirteen minutes…it’s a massive pain in the arse.”

Harry laughed so loudly that several heads swiveled towards them.

“What’s so funny?” he asked sharply.

“It’s weird, hearing you curse in your poncy accent.”

“Piss off,” Draco spat, although there was no heat in it. He glanced over at Harry’s workbench. “Have you got a separate cauldron? To boil the onions?”

“Er. No.” Harry shrugged. “I just use the same one for everything.”

Draco scoffed. “I’ve got a spare.” He rummaged through his kit and then pulled out two smaller collapsible cauldrons.

“Brilliant!” Harry said, beaming at him.

“It’s just a cauldron,” Draco muttered. He could feel himself turning red. “Go on, fill it with water. Regular is fine. And then boil the onions for ten minutes.”

Soon, their onions were boiling. They were making good time. Draco couldn’t help but exchange a grin with Harry as they overheard Finnigan rambling on to Blaise about his summer. Whatever reservations Finnigan might have had working next to a Slytherin, they must have been dismissed, because he was now loudly describing to him the witch he had taken to a Muggle pub. Draco badly wanted to see the look on Blaise’s face.

“Olive oil? For the neem?” Harry asked, consulting his textbook again.

“Sure.”

As Harry traipsed off to the store cupboard, Draco told himself to relax. To take a deep breath. He forced himself to focus on the familiar sounds of onions bubbling away, knives hitting wooden cutting boards, and Slughorn’s footfalls as he paced through the rows. The experience was so surreal that he almost felt as though he was watching it from outside of himself: he and Harry, working next to each other in Potions, getting along as well as they ever had. Maybe it wasn’t Harry who had lost the plot—maybe it was him who had finally gone insane, and was now having very odd hallucinations about Harry Potter of all people.

But Harry looked very real to him as he walked back and set a vial of olive oil onto his desk. And he sounded very real when he said, “Can I ask you something?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on in a low voice, “You said there had been complaints about your marks, right? That’s why Slughorn talked to you in the first place?”

Draco grunted. He dropped some neem leaves into his mortar and drowned them in a generous measure of oil.

“But…you’re brilliant at Potions. And I’ve seen you in Transfiguration. You keep up with Hermione just fine.”

Once again, Draco’s cheeks felt warm. “The problem isn’t in class,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t carry. “It’s after. With homework. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

He could feel Harry’s eyes on him. “There’s potions you can take for that.”

Draco gave a humourless laugh. “Believe me, I’ve tried. Doesn’t help.” After a pause, he said, “You really think this will work? Telling Slughorn I help you in Potions?”

“Can’t hurt,” Harry replied. “He’s obsessed with me, especially since…” Draco nodded to indicate that he understood. “It’s annoying. I hate it. But I thought, well, I might as well use it for something good, right? I could tell him you’re Britain’s next Potions Master and he’d believe me.”

“Probably.” Draco ground his neem leaves into a watery green oil. Next to him, Harry did the same. Up at the front of the class, someone laughed loudly. The sound ripped through him. All at once, his knees buckled, nearly sending him to the floor. The pain in his Mark was immense. Before he could stop himself, he dropped his pestle onto the bench with a loud clatter. A sickening scene flashed before him: his aunt Bellatrix, jeering as she dueled someone Draco couldn’t see…and then there was a blinding flash of light, and he knew that they were dead, and he felt his stomach turn…and still, his aunt was laughing…

“Oops, we forgot to strain our onions.” He could barely hear Harry over the ringing in his ears. “Let me get your sieve.” But Draco couldn’t bring himself to respond; the room spun so sharply around him that he feared he would be sick if he opened his mouth. He grasped the edges of his bench, clinging tightly as he took in a stuttering breath.

“Draco. Shit. Are you okay?”

Draco forced himself to nod. He squeezed his eyes tightly. “Fine.”

“What should I do? Is it another flashback?”

As the room came back into focus, Draco saw Slughorn eyeing them curiously from his desk. “Slughorn’s looking at us,” he said through gritted teeth. “Keep working.”

Slowly, carefully, Draco forced himself to rummage through his kit. His shaking hands were clumsy; he fumbled as he took out his sieve and a small glass bowl.

 _‘Focus,’_ he told himself. _‘Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re in Potions. You’re fine. Harry’s right there.’_

It took a huge effort to lift the cauldron of boiling onions over his sieve. Draco jerked his arm back as his Mark gave a painful throb; boiling water splashed onto his workbench.

“Let me help you,” Harry said.

“No.” He could still feel Slughorn’s eyes on them. “God, I wish he’d look away.”

Draco was uncomfortably aware of his own pulse. He swore he could hear his heart as it pummeled against his chest. But he had to finish this potion, had to carry on as though nothing was happening, had to pretend that he couldn’t still hear his aunt’s piercing laugh, ripping through him…his Mark burned so strongly that he couldn’t help but grasp his arm, groaning. Slughorn was still watching, he knew, and at any moment he would come over to ask what was wrong, and how could Draco explain…?

He jumped as something shattered in the store cupboard. Several people screamed.

“Great Scott!” Slughorn yelped, jumping up so quickly that he tripped over his chair. “Has one of you bothered the Erumpent horns?” As he dashed over, panicked murmurs filled the classroom; Patil was already halfway to the door.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Harry tuck his wand into his back pocket.

“ _Harry,"_ he managed to admonish him.

“Everything’s fine! Everything’s fine!” Slughorn called, coming out from the cupboard. “Just a vial, nothing more…I’ll remind you to put your empty vials at the _back_ of the shelf when you’re done with them, please…”

As the class settled, Harry turned to Draco, studying him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. That was…” A shudder passed through him. “Awful.”

“How’s your Mark?”

“It hurts. Someone laughed, and it set me off. I don't know why.”

Harry’s hand twitched as though he was going to reach out to him. He must have thought better of it, because instead he moved to flip through his textbook, a grim look on his face. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “I’ll ask Hermione for another one of those healing potions.”

“Alright.” It wouldn’t be the worst thing, he thought, slipping into that limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness again. It might be nice. There had been something soothing about giving in to the potion’s soporific effect, listening to Harry as he talked about his Quidditch team. And if it meant he wouldn’t have to relive these memories, all the better. 

***

By the time they arrived at dinner, Blaise had told Pansy everything. The moment they finished their puddings, Pansy grasped his arm and said, “Draco, I need to speak to you.” He threw a furious look at Blaise, who didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. He was too busy smiling at Whitby across the Great Hall. Making a mental note to tell Whitby about that time Blaise had singed his own eyebrows off in Defence, Draco followed Pansy out the entrance hall and onto the grounds.

“I don’t know why Harry worked next to me in Potions, if that’s what you’re going to ask,” he said irritably. They set off in the direction of the greenhouses.

“‘Harry,’ now, is it?” Pansy asked archly. He cursed himself. “Anyway,” she said, tugging him along the path, “that isn’t what I wanted to ask you.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not entirely. I’m just confused, Draco.”

He felt rather like a dog on a lead as she hurried them down the path. “Are we in a rush to be somewhere?”

“I don’t want people to hear,” she snapped. “The moment you say ‘Harry Potter,’ suddenly everyone’s interested…”

Draco doubted very much that anyone would be out for an evening stroll; the heavy air spoke of imminent rain. But he allowed her to drag him to their stone bench by Greenhouse One. They huddled together, Pansy checking over her shoulder before turning to face him. “Draco. You need to be honest with me.”

He shifted nervously. “Alright.”

“Don’t you find it odd? That all of a sudden Potter is so _friendly_ towards you?”

“Erm…” Draco thought back on their meetings in the clearing. The little jokes they shared, the gentle touches as Harry checked his Mark, the conversations about Quidditch, their friends, and the war. Somehow, it didn’t seem strange to him at all.

“Blaise said you two were getting on. As if you’d been friends for years.”

“It’s your fault for bringing it up at the pub,” Draco said. “He told Slughorn I help him with Potions. He thought maybe Slughorn would stop bothering me about my marks.”

“But why does he care?”

“How should I know? He always needs to play the hero, you know how Potter is…”

“Don’t try that ‘Potter’ nonsense with me,” she warned him. “Is this to do with your Mark?”

Draco shrugged. “Maybe.”

Crossing one leg over the other, Pansy jiggled her foot as she said, “How did you start this? Why did he agree to help you in the first place?”

“I mean, he just sort of offered,” Draco said. Intent on looking anywhere but Pansy’s face, he bent down and picked up a dried leaf. Withered and grey, it spun between his fingers.

“Offered? When? Why?”

“Already signed up to work as an Auror, have you?” Draco said bitterly. “You’ll have to apply for Investigations. You’ll be brilliant.”

“Draco.”

He sighed in exasperation. “It was at the Ministry, after my trial. I had just found out I’d been cleared. Harry was there as a witness.” Draco allowed the leaf to slip out of his fingers; it drifted back to the ground. “They brought me to this room while I was waiting for my mother. And Harry came in, and he gave me my old wand back. And he said he was glad, told me I can move past it now, it’s over, I can go on with my life…and I told him, well, not really, because I’ve still got the Mark. And it reminds me every bloody day what an idiot I was.”

“And he said he could fix it?” Pansy asked.

“No, not then. I had to go back to the Ministry, for my father’s hearings…my mother insisted. Harry was there again, as a witness. And during a break he came up to me and asked if I was serious about getting rid of the Mark, because he thought he might know how.” Months later, he could still recall the look on Harry’s face as he had headed him off in the corridor: sombre, intent, his voice oddly muted. “He said we’d start in September, once we got back to school.”

Pansy frowned. “And none of that seemed suspicious to you?”

“Why should it?” Draco tried to suppress his irritation. “Pansy, what could he possibly do? He’s getting rid of my Mark. How could he use that against me?”

“I don’t know.” She tilted her head. “I just find it strange. You two hated each other.”

“Over rubbish.” Abruptly, he stood up. He couldn’t bear to look at her. There was no reason to be angry—she was a good friend, he told himself, she was worried about him—but she was voicing very loudly the same thoughts he had been trying to suppress. “We’ve seen people _die_ , Pansy. Been through awful, terrible things. You think I care that he’s a Gryffindor and I’m a Slytherin?”

“It’s more than that,” Pansy insisted. “You know it is. Draco, for years you were on opposite sides. You can’t tell me—”

“Ask him yourself, then!” Draco said angrily, clenching his fists.

“Don’t you dare get cross with me.” She was on her feet now, too, face twisted in anger. “I’m just trying to understand.”

Draco forced himself to take a deep breath. “I don’t know what to tell you. We’ve been getting on. That’s all I know.”

“Look.” Pansy reached out and took his hand. Reluctantly, he let her. “Draco. I know you don’t want to hear it. But I’m worried. I don’t want you to get hurt. And I’m afraid you will.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, puzzled. “Why would I get hurt? When we finally get rid of my Mark, I’ll be _better_.”

“Oh, Draco,” she sighed. She had a look on her face he had come to detest over the years, as though she was speaking to someone very stupid or very naïve. “Just watch yourself, alright?”

They walked back to the castle in silence, Pansy gripping his arm tightly. It had finally started to rain. Thick raindrops dripped down on them; they slipped down Draco’s brow, his cheeks. Neither of them bothered to conjure an umbrella, nor did they pick up the pace as they traipsed down the path.

***

“Yellow and black,” Draco noted, easing himself onto the blanket.

“Thought I’d keep things interesting.”

“Still no Slytherin colours, though.”

“You could probably convince me.” He must not have noticed the startled look on Draco’s face; casual as ever, he reached out and said, “I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

Draco held out his arm. He didn’t trust himself to speak. These were the sorts of comments that made him lose his footing. In the past, he had managed to hold up his end of their verbal spars with ease. But now, Harry wasn’t taunting him, or insulting him, or provoking him—in fact, his remarks were quite mild—and yet he found himself unable to do much more than stare. Fortunately, Harry seemed not to notice.

“Did you ask Granger?” Draco said when he finally regained his voice. “About taking that potion again?”

“I did. She said it’s no problem to brew it, but she wants to look something up first.” Harry took out his wand, pressing it to Draco’s Mark. “Ready?” He nodded. “Right then. Three…two…one…”

_The Dark Lord’s fingers were frigid against his skin. It took every last bit of willpower he had not to tremble, not to flinch. Those cold fingers traced his Mark, freshly burned onto his flesh. Draco couldn’t bring himself to look. He stared instead at the bookcase behind them; he had read most of the books lined up on the shelf. He recited the authors’ names to himself as a distraction from the Dark Lord’s face, mere inches from his. Bagshot…Worple…Jigger…Waffling…_

_“Are you not pleased, Draco?” the Dark Lord asked, his voice such a soft, quiet hiss that Draco might have mistaken it for Parseltongue._

_“Very pleased, my Lord,” he said quickly._

_He had to stop himself from sighing in relief as the Dark Lord sat back in his armchair. His Aunt Bellatrix came forward, nearly trembling in excitement._

_“Thank you, my Lord…my own nephew, you can’t imagine how proud, how grateful we are…”_

_The Dark Lord surveyed Draco with his cold, red eyes. Finally, he said, “Draco. I might have a little task for you, should you think yourself capable of completing it.”_

_His Aunt Bellatrix spoke for him: “Of course he can, my Lord, and with my guidance!”_

_“Let us speak alone,” the Dark Lord said. He did not even look at Bellatrix as he dismissed her; he kept his eyes on Draco, who was dizzy from fear._

_For a moment, he thought his aunt might argue, but she quickly corrected herself. “Yes, my Lord, certainly…let me check on your rooms, make sure they’re as you like them…”_

_Draco stared at the floor as she bowed out. Once they were alone, the Dark Lord said softly, “There is something I need you to do for me, Draco. You may be the only one capable.”_

_“My Lord?”_

_“Even as my forces grow, there are certain…obstacles. Obstacles I need removed. And you, it so happens, are perfectly positioned to ensure this removal.”_

_Draco’s heart sped up; he had no idea what any of this meant._

_“In a week, you will be returning to Hogwarts. Is that correct?”_

_“Yes, my Lord.”_

_“And how often do you see your Headmaster?”_

_“I…I don’t know,” he said blankly. As those red eyes narrowed, he said, “Not very often, my Lord. Only at dinner, at Quidditch games, sometimes around the castle…”_

_He heard the Dark Lord mutter to Nagini. There was a moment of silence, and then, “Dumbledore is an obstacle to my success. I will need you to remove him. By the end of the year.”_

_“Remove him, my Lord?”_

_“Kill him.”_

_It was impossible. He must not have heard correctly. Or perhaps this was someone else’s life—because this could not be happening, not to him. He couldn’t possibly be standing in front of Lord Voldemort, in his parents’ sitting room, charged with killing one of the greatest wizards who had ever lived. He had the surreal sensation that this was just a dream. At any moment, he would wake up in his warm bed, he would feel his silk sheets, he would hear his mother rapping on the door, asking him to come down for breakfast. But none of these things happened. Instead, he dared to look up at the Dark Lord, who was eyeing him coolly._

_“Was your dear aunt mistaken, Draco?” he asked. “Are you not pleased to receive my Mark? Are you not eager to play your part? Others, I’m sure, would be glad to take your place…perhaps you would prefer that I dispose of you, to make room for another…”_

_“No, not at all,” he said, his mouth going dry. “I’m so grateful, my Lord, so honoured…”_

Draco gnashed his teeth as Harry held his arm in place. Even as the memory disintegrated, like sand slipping between his fingers, he could still see those red eyes glinting in the light of the fire, gauging his reaction, narrowing in amusement whenever he stumbled.

“It was about him,” Draco gasped. The air was chilly as it rushed into his lungs. “Wasn’t it? V-Voldemort. I can still see him, his face…”

“Yeah,” Harry said softly. “Hold still a minute, hang on…”

Draco relented, resting his head back onto the pillow. Hot needles drove into his arm, the pain so acute it was nearly numbing. Finally, those horrid red eyes faded away, and with them the pain in his Mark.

“There…I got it all, I think…how do you feel?”

“Awful,” Draco admitted. He couldn’t say why, but he felt as though he was going to cry. His eyes stung as he squeezed them tightly shut. “What was it about?”

“I think you’d just gotten your Mark,” Harry said. He was rubbing his warm palm across Draco’s arm. “And Voldemort…he was asking you to kill Dumbledore. Well, he wasn’t asking you…you didn’t have a choice…”

“Don’t start with that,” he said curtly.

“I could feel how scared you were.”

Draco said nothing. He rubbed at his eyes, urging himself not to be pathetic.

“Won’t it be weird, now?” Harry asked. “You can still remember what happened—at the Astronomy Tower, and, I’m guessing, everything leading up to it…” He glanced at Draco for confirmation; he nodded wearily. “But now you can’t remember being told to do it.”

“It’s not…it’s not like that.” Draco sifted through the fuzzy memories. They floated at the edges of his consciousness—occasionally, he thought he had nearly plucked one out of the ether, but as he tried to focus on the details it slipped away, darting through the murk of his memory like a fish flitting up a stream. “There’s a part of me that can still see the loose details…I still know the general idea…” The unbearable memory of that moment on the Astronomy Tower had not been dampened at all—even now, his stomach lurched painfully as he recalled the way Dumbledore had slumped down, unarmed. Afraid he was going to be sick, Draco sat up, urging himself to gulp down the crisp autumn air.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, reaching out to steady him.

“Fine.” Draco shook his head, focusing back on his memories. “I think my mind can put the pieces together, because I can remember everything that followed. I know he asked me to do it. And I know…or maybe I’m just guessing, or it’s logical reasoning, I don’t know…but I know it was at the Manor. And that I was terrified.”

“You were so scared. It was horrible.”

“Yes, well, we’re not all Gryffindors,” he said crossly.

Harry made an impatient noise. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Draco supposed he did know, but his nerves were frayed. He was so drained he thought he might never make it back up to the castle. “This is horrible,” he managed to say.

Slowly, Harry shifted towards him. “I know. I’m sorry.” A pause, and then, “I’m going to hug you. Alright?”

The concerned look on Harry’s face, coupled with his words, sent Draco’s stomach into performing a complicated gymnastics routine. To cover his embarrassment, he gave out a long-suffering sigh. Harry said nothing. He just sat there, waiting. Finally, Draco grumbled, “If you must.”

Harry was just as warm as he had remembered. And unless it was Draco’s imagination, he could have sworn they fit together easier. Draco forced himself to bring his arms up and held loosely onto Harry, patting his back in a way that he hoped conveyed the sentiment that he found this rather ridiculous and that he was above it all. He wasn’t, of course. The tension in his body seemed to diffuse as Harry squeezed him; abruptly, it occurred to him that everything was fine, that these were only memories, that Voldemort was dead and that nothing could really happen to him as long as Harry was there.

Draco knew his face was pink when they pulled apart. Unsure of himself, he glanced away and fiddled with a corner of the blanket.

Harry watched him. The silence between them was uncomfortable, but Draco didn’t know how to break it. Eventually, Harry said, “How’s your Mark?”

“Still stings a bit.”

“Yeah. But it’s getting better…I bet by Christmas we’ll be done.”

Draco froze, the corner of the blanket still bent between his fingers. That should have been a pleasant thought. But it wasn’t. Because once his Mark was gone, they would have no reason to meet. Shoving the realization away, he forced a smile onto his face. “Yeah. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Yeah.”

They lapsed into another silence, broken only by the distant sound of an owl hooting above them. This was a good thing, he told himself. It was good that they were making progress, good that his Mark would soon be gone. For once in his life, he decided, he wouldn’t sabotage himself.

***

There were worse ways to spend an evening. The fire was crackling away in the hearth, and Draco had changed into the comfiest clothes he owned: a sweater and a pair of flannel bottoms. He and Blaise were supposed to be working on their Potions paper, but instead they were flipping through the latest issue of the _Quidditch Times_ while sampling sweets Blaise’s mother had sent him.

“They’re from that man she’s dating,” Blaise said as he rummaged through the box of chocolates. “It’s so annoying, how she tells them what I like.”

“Yes, so terrible, to have rich men trying to curry favour with you,” Draco said drily.

Blaise scoffed. Consulting the back of the box, he said, “Which sounds better: peppermint wafer or lemon cream?”

“Peppermint,” Draco said. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he poured over the magazine, watching as Oliver Wood soared across the page. “Did you see Wood’s in here? They’ve got a feature on Puddlemere.”

“Is he still just as fit?” Blaise asked.

“See for yourself.” Draco tossed the _Times_ over to Blaise’s bed.

Blaise considered the glossy photograph. “Doesn’t look bad on a broomstick, does he?”

Draco snorted. “Careful, or I’ll tell Whitby. Especially after you ratted me out to Pansy.”

“You stuck me with Finnigan!” Blaise said indignantly. “He never shut up. I swear I can still hear him, going on about some witch he met over the summer.”

“I thought we were supposed to be branching out, making new friends. Inter-house unity and all that rubbish.” Draco held up a round, golden chocolate. “What’s this one?”

“Er…” Blaise scanned the box. “Treacle tart, I think.” As he turned back to the magazine, Draco carefully set the little bonbon aside.

“We need to make a truce,” Draco said, laying back onto his bed. “No more telling Pansy each other’s business. She’s relentless.”

“Sure,” said Blaise. And then, in a very casual voice that didn’t deceive Draco at all, he asked, “Why _did_ Potter work next to you in Potions?”

“You two act as though I have any insight into the strange mind of Harry Potter,” he sneered.

But Blaise wasn’t so easily put off. “You seemed to be getting on.”

“I mean…” Draco looked up at the ceiling, wondering how much he should reveal. His friendship with Blaise had always been complicated; although he had recently mellowed out, he could be prickly. Before, Draco had suspected that they were too similar—too Slytherin—to really make a go at friendship. Finally, Draco settled on a half-truth. “You remember what I told you about Slughorn? And the problem with my marks?”

“Right.”

“Well, Harry—” He was about to correct himself, but this was getting ridiculous. “Harry thought if he worked next to me in Potions, and said he needed my help, then Slughorn might leave me alone.”

“I figured it was something like that,” Blaise said. “Always has to play the hero, doesn’t he?”

Draco didn’t like to think of it that way. He preferred to believe that Harry had done it for him specifically, not because of some unstoppable urge to save people. But he couldn’t say that to Blaise, so he merely grunted in agreement.

“I should warn you,” Blaise said, unwrapping another chocolate. “Theo’s going to ask you to visit Azkaban with him again. He wrote me last night.”

“I wish he’d drop it,” Draco muttered.

“Do you think you’ll ever go see your father?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Draco ran his hands over his face, exasperated. “I hate him. If it weren’t for all of you pestering me, I could go my whole life without speaking to him and be perfectly happy.”

“And what about your mother?”

“My mother…that’s more complicated,” said Draco. “She tried to save me, I guess. She didn’t want me taking the Mark. And then she asked Severus to make an Unbreakable Vow. But my father, he…” Draco didn’t know what to say. He didn’t think himself capable of putting into words how vehemently he detested his father.

“I just thought Potter would have rubbed off on you more,” Blaise said. His tone was flippant, but as Draco turned to gape at him, he saw that he had a sly grin on his face. “Isn’t he all about mercy and forgiveness?”

“What are you talking about?” Draco breathed.

“Oh, Draco, you’re so boring when you’re obtuse,” he drawled. “Lately you’ve been all ‘Harry this,’ ‘Harry that.’ I see you looking at each other during meals. In Potions, you were practically best mates. Weasley was furious,” he added, smirking. “So well done there.”

Draco should have thought up something clever to say, some excuse that would allow him to evade Blaise’s accusations, but it was as though his mind had gone blank.

“That stupid look on your face really gives you away,” Blaise noted, returning to his box of chocolates. “Maybe you should work on it, if you plan to continue on as though nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing _has_ happened,” Draco insisted. “We talk sometimes. He’s alright. He’s not as much of a prat as he used to be.”

“Be honest with me. I’ll know if you’re lying.” Much as he wanted to, Draco refused to look away as Blaise’s dark eyes met his. “Is that where you go at night? To see Potter?”

“It’s not like that,” Draco said at once. Blaise cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, yes, alright, fine, he’s the one I’m meeting up with, but it’s not how it sounds. We just—”

“Spare me,” Blaise said, waving his hand dismissively. “My dreams are already haunted by the sound of Finnigan’s voice…I don’t need nightmares about Potter’s ineptitude in bed.”

“ _It’s not like that_.” Draco sat up, panicked. “Blaise. It’s not like that. And you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Your secret’s safe with me. But I swear you’ve lost whatever Slytherin you had left in you. If it were me shagging the Chosen One, I’d make sure everyone knew. You could get any job at the Ministry.”

“We aren’t shagging,” Draco hissed. His face felt very warm.

Blaise looked up at him in surprise. “What? You can’t be serious. What are you waiting for?”

“It’s not like that!” Frustrated, Draco barely managed to rein in his anger. “He’s helping me with my Mark. Look.” Draco yanked up his sleeve. The Mark was hardly more than a grey blotch against his skin.

He had expected Blaise to be impressed, or at least surprised. Instead, he frowned. “What have you gone and done that for?”

“W-what…what do you mean?” Draco spluttered. “I’m getting rid of it! Wouldn’t you?”

Blaise shrugged. “How are you managing it?”

“Harry knows some spell,” Draco said, pulling back down his sleeve. “Granger found it. They were using it to get rid of his scar, but he stopped. It lets him go through my memories, the ones connected to the Mark. It’s not like Obliviating, though. The memories are still there. I can feel them.”

“What sort of memories?”

“I don’t know!” He couldn’t understand why Blaise was interrogating him. Not even Pansy had been this difficult. “Just…different things. I can’t remember, obviously. But Harry’s told me some of them.” Uncomfortable, he looked away. “Watching someone die. Fixing the cabinet. That sort of thing.”

“Sure.” Blaise paused, considering him. “But it doesn’t change anything. You can erase all the memories, and get rid of the Mark, but it still happened. You still took the Mark. You still tried to kill Dumbledore. So, what’s the point?”

Blaise’s words cut so deeply that he forgot to breathe. The ache in his chest was reminiscent of the curse Harry had butchered him with in their sixth year. “I…I hate the Mark. I don’t want it on me. I can’t stand to look at it.”

“That’s fair.” Oblivious to Draco’s dismay, Blaise sat up and stretched. “Well, Pansy’s going to be furious with us. We were supposed to finish that Potions paper.”

But Draco’s heart still twisted violently. “You don’t think it’s worth it?” he asked, grasping his left arm. “Getting rid of the Mark?”

“Oh. Well.” Blaise shrugged. “Sure, if it makes you happy. You’ve been less of a headcase lately, so that’s been an improvement.”

And with that, Blaise Vanished the empty wrappers off his sheets with a wave of his wand. Draco watched as he sauntered off to the lavatory. His mind was reeling. Of course, he knew that changing his memories wouldn’t change what had happened. He wasn’t an idiot. But a sad, guilty voice nagged at him, wondering if he was getting off easy. Was it fair that he was able to forget the awful things he had done, while those whose lives had been permanently altered—maybe even snuffed out—still bore the marks he had left on them? In some ways, it didn’t seem right.

 _‘But it doesn’t affect them,’_ he thought to himself, desperate to assuage his guilt. _‘Whether or not I remember, it doesn’t affect them.’_

Maybe not. But it had never occurred to him before now that perhaps part of his atonement should be years spent replaying the memories over and over while confronting the Mark on his arm every day. With a trembling hand, Draco picked up the little golden chocolate he had set aside. It was obvious that he was incapable of doing the right thing. At every turn, he made poor choices. Hit with the realization that he couldn’t trust his own judgment, he felt very small, and very alone.

***

As he made his way through the Forest, slipping past the now-familiar trees, Draco briefly considered calling the entire thing off. The possibility that he had made another terrible choice hung over him, extinguishing any joy he had once felt when he saw how little remained of his Mark. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop, if only because he wanted to see Harry again. He barely knew himself, he had come to realize, but even he knew well enough that he didn’t want this odd arrangement with Harry to end. And as he stepped into the clearing, he was immediately rewarded with a large smile from Harry, who was waiting next to a crimson blanket.

“Gryffindor colours,” Draco said as he crawled onto the blanket.

“I thought I’d start celebrating early,” Harry said. “Slytherin have no chance against us.”

“Is that so?” He settled his head onto the pillow. “Finally sorted out your team, have you?”

“They’re better.” Harry held out his hand. “Can I?”

Draco offered his arm. “They’re better? How so?”

“Well, Ron’s doing great,” Harry said. He rolled up Draco’s sleeve with such familiarity that Draco felt his stomach squirm. “And Demelza’s really serious.”

“Serious?”

“She wants to play Quidditch professionally,” Harry said. He rubbed his palm along Draco’s Mark. “Which is fine, you know, it’s better than goofing off…but she’s kind of annoying, now. She’s driving Ron around the bend.”

“Remind me to send her flowers,” said Draco.

Harry scoffed. “Ron’s good this year, really gotten himself together. You’ll see on Saturday.”

“Oh dear, is it this Saturday?” Draco drawled. “I was planning on going to Hogsmeade…I need new quills.”

Harry look up at him sharply. “What do you mean? Can’t it wait?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’re getting in new swan-feather ones.”

“You can’t be serious.” Harry made a face. “You can go to Hogsmeade any old time.”

“Of course I’m not serious,” Draco said, sniggering. “I’ll be at your bloody game, don’t worry.”

“Prat,” Harry muttered, taking out of his wand. “Are you ready?” When Draco nodded, Harry pressed the tip of his wand into his arm. “Three…two…one…”

_Draco stood outside the study, heart pounding. He was waiting to be dismissed for the evening. But something had gone wrong, because the Dark Lord had arrived unannounced, and now Death Eaters were scurrying about the Manor. One of them had already been tortured—the screams had been dreadful._

_He jumped as the study door flew open. But it wasn’t his father who appeared—it was his Aunt Bellatrix. “Draco,” she said breathlessly. “Go get Ollivander.”_

_“But—” Draco hated the cellar. He avoided it at all costs. Frantic, he looked around to see if he could spot his mother, or Severus, or anyone else who could intervene._

_“Draco!” she hissed, eyes wild. “Go._ Now! _”_

_There was nothing for it. Steeling himself, he took out his wand and marched towards the cellar. He knew Ollivander was about to face the Dark Lord’s wrath, and he was the one who would deliver him to that fate. Worse still, Ollivander might finally be killed tonight. It seemed he had outlived his use, or disappointed the Dark Lord one too many times. Conditions were terrible in the cellar—it was cold, and dark, and they supplied hardly any food or water. Perhaps it would be a mercy, dying…_

_“I’m coming in!” Draco called, wand at the ready. “Stand back!”_

_But there had been no need, because Ollivander was slumped on the floor. For one horrible moment, Draco thought he had already died. “Get up,” he snapped, shaking him roughly. “Get up, come on.” There came a great shriek from above._

_“Come on, damn you, get up,” Draco said, frightened. He would have to levitate him. People were arguing upstairs. He might very well be delivering Ollivander to his death, but he couldn’t think what else to do…_

Draco wrenched himself out of the memory. His Mark burned as though he had just been branded. Vision blurred from the pain, he only just managed to reach out and shove Harry’s wand away from his arm. He could still hear the arguing, the shouting—the awful smell of the cellar mingled with the cool autumn air—it was as though he was stuck in limbo—his mind didn’t know where to drop him off, where to end this memory, how to restart—

“Draco!” Harry had sat him up and was shaking him. “What’s wrong?”

Draco leaned over the side of the blanket, fearing he would be sick. But it never came. Nauseous, dizzy, he held himself up with one trembling arm, blinking away the tears in his eyes. He was certain he had never felt so sick before.

“What is it?” Harry asked, his voice full of fear. “Was it too much? You couldn’t watch it?”

Draco shook his head vehemently.

“Is it me? You didn’t want me to see?”

Again, he shook his head.

“Please, Draco…” Harry’s hand was rubbing his back. “You’re scaring me…tell me, what’s wrong…”

“I can’t anymore,” he sobbed. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what? Can’t see the memories anymore? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s not that.” He sat back, bringing his knees up to his chest. Shame overcame him once more as he saw Harry’s pale, startled face, his green eyes full of concern. He hadn’t meant to frighten him.

“Tell me. Please.”

“It isn’t right,” he said, not caring how stupid he sounded. “The things I’ve done—you have no idea, we haven’t even seen—I’m positive we haven’t seen the worst of it, because I can still remember—”

“But we won’t have to see everything,” Harry insisted. “We’re nearly done, look how faint your Mark is.”

“It’s not that!” Draco pushed his hair out of his face. “The things I’ve done—I should have to remember it, all of it— _it doesn’t change anything, forgetting._ ”

Harry stared at him blankly. “But remembering doesn’t change anything, either.”

“I’m a coward,” Draco said in a miserable voice. “Trying to pretend I wasn’t a Death Eater.”

“That’s not it. That’s not the point of all this.”

“What’s the point of it, then?”

“To help you move on,” Harry said. “If you don’t have the Mark, you won’t be reminded of him all the time…isn’t that what you said? It’ll be easier for you…”

“It shouldn’t be easier for me,” Draco spat. “I didn’t make it easier for Ollivander, for you, for Katie Bell, for…” He buried his face in his hands, ashamed.

“It’s a lot more complicated than that,” Harry said quietly. “I’ve seen your memories. I know how you were brought up, what you were forced to do.”

“You don’t know me at all.”

“Don’t say that.” Harry shook his head. “Please, don’t say that.”

“Now you’re upset,” Draco said, staring into his own hands. “I’m dragging you down with me. I don’t know why you bother.”

Harry shifted so that he sat in front of Draco. “Look at me. You’re talking rubbish. I want to help you—I’m glad to do it.”

“You’re Harry Potter,” he murmured. “You’re always saving people. You have no choice.”

Harry chuckled weakly. “You think that’s why I’m doing this? Really?”

Draco shrugged.

Harry gently placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “I’m going to hug you. Alright?” Draco nodded, and Harry rose to his knees, pulling Draco against his chest. Slowly, Draco wound his arms around Harry’s waist, hugging him back. He exhaled as he listened to Harry’s heartbeat. It was slow, steady, soothing. And again he felt himself growing calm. Harry was right—Ollivander was well, now, and Draco’s tears wouldn’t change anything. His guilt wouldn’t improve Ollivander’s life, or take away the scars he had endured. Feeling rather foolish, he pulled away, intending to apologize, but Harry held him tight.

“I’m helping you because I want to,” Harry said softly. “I thought you knew. And you need to forgive yourself. Because I forgave you ages ago.”

Draco didn't know what to say. As they finally pulled apart, he avoided Harry's eyes, worried he might betray himself.

"We should get back," Harry said. "It's late."

“Right." Draco took a deep breath, preparing himself to stand up, when he paused. "Here, I forgot.” Before he could change his mind, Draco pulled the little golden chocolate out of his pocket. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, taking it from the palm of his hand.

“It’s just a chocolate. Blaise’s mother sent them. Well, not his mother. A man she’s seeing. Blaise doesn’t like him very much.” He knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop. He was suddenly nervous. “That one’s treacle tart flavoured.” When Harry said nothing, he felt very stupid. “I thought you liked treacle tart. Forget about it. You don’t have to eat it.”

“You…” Harry had a peculiar look on his face as he blinked at Draco. “Thank you.”

“It’s just—it’s just a stupid chocolate, for God’s sake—”

“Treacle tart is my favourite. How did you know that?”

Draco’s cheeks were burning. “I’ve known forever. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me.”

“Well.” He didn’t know what to say. “Well, I’m glad. Enjoy it.”

“I will,” Harry said, smiling at him.

Even though he was embarrassed, Draco couldn’t help but grin back.

***

Draco stood in front of the little mirror hanging on their wardrobe. Blaise was already gone—he wanted to send a letter before breakfast. After all these years at Hogwarts, Draco still found that he needed to look in the mirror to arrange his tie. As he straightened the knot, pulling it to lay at the base of his throat, he considered his reflection. Between yesterday and today, he was unchanged. And that was what he couldn’t understand. He had spent all night awake—not upset, not scared, but pensive, dragging his fingers through the filmy green curtains surrounding his bed as he tried to digest what had happened.

He liked Harry. He had to admit it. He had liked him since…since when? Since they had started working on his Mark, and Harry began to show him a startling degree of empathy? Or maybe since the Battle, when Harry had saved him once in the Room of Requirement, and then again in the thick of the fight, and then _again_ when he went to face Voldemort and saved them all? Or maybe before then, when he had started to realize that Harry was everything he was not? He couldn’t say. It was difficult enough to sort out his feelings in the present day. And it didn’t matter. The end result was the same. He had never felt like this before. Not ever.

If was honest with himself, he was scared. Just a bit. He had never really liked someone before. There had been the strange half-attempt with Pansy in their fourth year, culminating in a disastrous snog after the Yule Ball that had confirmed for him, without a doubt, that he did _not_ fancy girls. And then, between the Dark Lord’s return, his father’s mishandling of the events at the Ministry, and his failed attempts to kill Dumbledore, he hadn’t exactly had time for a boyfriend. But his fear ran deeper than that. If he forced himself to be brutally, frighteningly honest, the truth was that he had spent much of his life being disappointed by people who said they cared for him. And he wasn’t sure if he could handle it if Harry went on to do the same.

Unnerved, Draco reached into the wardrobe and took out his robes. The solution was…what, then? To push Harry away? To assume the worst of everyone? He was tired of being afraid. It was exhausting, keeping his guard up out of the fear that he might be let down again. The logical part of him knew that Harry was nothing like his parents, nothing like Macnair. They couldn’t have been more different. But the entire thing was just so _surreal._ And what if Harry found out, and pushed him away? What if he refused to help him with his Mark?

“Get a grip,” he told his reflection, scowling as he smoothed out his tie. “Harry isn’t like that. You know he isn’t.”

“If you say so, dear!” the mirror squeaked at him. Draco was so startled he dropped his robes onto the floor.

***

Harry, Draco soon realized, was everywhere. He was in Potions, pretending not to hear as Slughorn droned on about his many merits. He was in Transfiguration, openly grinning when Draco was the first to transfigure his bat into a meerkat. He was in Herbology, standing so close to Draco that their arms touched, muttering to him that his shoelace was untied. There had been nothing suggestive in Harry’s voice, nothing at all, and yet Draco had gone bright red and been unable to respond. And then Harry was at dinner, listening to Weasley and Granger as they nattered on, absently dragging his spoon through his soup. Whatever Harry did, Draco couldn’t seem to look away. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, falling back into his habit of scrutinizing Harry’s every move. And whenever Harry looked back at him—which happened, in his estimation, fairly often—he was disgustingly giddy all over again. He suspected that he was beginning to look an awful lot like Blaise whenever he allowed himself to glance over at the Gryffindor table, but he couldn’t seem to stop. It had been ages since he’d been in such high spirits.

Only one thing could spoil his good mood. And it arrived just as they finished their breakfast Saturday morning: a letter from his mother. Before Draco could react, her large eagle owl landed precariously on the table, knocking over a goblet and flicking bits of egg at them with its wings. Blaise jumped to his feet, narrowly avoiding the fork that went flying in his direction, while Pansy hastily shoved their plates out of the way.

“Stupid bird,” Draco groaned, ripping the scroll off its leg. “Go on! Go!” But the eagle owl refused; finally finding its footing, it pecked angrily at Draco’s hands.

“Read the bloody letter!” Pansy cried. Everyone at the Slytherin table was now staring at them.

“Go!” Draco hissed, flapping his arms in an attempt to shoo the owl away. “You’re supposed to bring the post and then leave!”

But it was clear that his mother had ordered her owl to harass him until he finally read her letter. Furious, he cast aside the green ribbon holding the scroll together and unfurled it.

“What is it?” Blaise demanded from behind him. “Has someone died? Your mother never writes on Saturdays."

_Draco,_

_I’m writing to ask you to visit your father with me this weekend. We can go Sunday evening. I’ve asked you many times and I still haven’t received your answer. I don’t need to tell you how disappointed I am that you’ve turned your back on your father at a time when he needs our support. It might be easy, while you’re away, to pretend that your family doesn’t exist, but I never raised you to be so childish._

_Waiting for your response. We love you._

Draco glanced up at Pansy, who was silently mouthing the words as she read over his shoulder. The eagle owl was drinking out of Blaise’s cup, still glowering at him. The word “Azkaban” stuck out at him cruelly: it set his hands to trembling. He desperately did not want to have a meltdown in the Great Hall, not while everyone was watching him, but the very prospect of being forced to visit that place sent a torrent of anxiety rushing through his veins.

“You need to answer her,” Blaise said, settling back into his seat. “Just say something. Anything.”

“Yes, you need to write back,” Pansy said. She reached into her bag and rummaged around. “This has gotten out of hand.”

“People are staring,” Blaise muttered, and he was right: Draco was painfully aware of the eyes on him as he waited for Pansy to pass him a quill. Thankfully, Harry had already left, no doubt to prepare for the Quidditch match.

“Here.” Pansy shoved a quill and inkpot at him. He gripped them tightly, willing his hand to stop shaking.

The problem was, he didn’t know what to say. It would take days, perhaps weeks, to craft a response that would encompass everything he wanted to convey to his mother. But this wasn’t the place, with the ridiculous owl staring him down and his classmates whispering around him. Furious with his mother for once again pushing him into an unfair position, he unscrewed the inkpot, dipped in the quill, and then wrote at the bottom of her note: NO. Pansy shifted next to him, but he paid her no mind.

“Where’s the string?” Draco asked, looking around at the debris from the owl’s graceless landing. “There was a green string.”

Silently, Blaise picked the string off the floor and passed it to him. If the owl was aware of his reply—owls couldn’t read, could they?—it gave no sign; it gazed down at him imperiously as he tied the scroll back onto its leg. With one final nip in Draco’s direction, it finally took off, knocking over a basket of bread rolls as it went.

Before Pansy or Blaise could speak, he said tersely, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But Draco,” Pansy started up, “she’s just worried. You haven’t—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” he snapped. He didn’t care anymore how vicious he sounded.

From the affronted look on Pansy’s face, he knew he hadn’t heard the last of this. But for now, she held her tongue, and that was enough. Even though he hadn’t had a flashback, the nausea rolling through his stomach was just as acute. He knew, rationally, that he was safe; it wasn’t as though his mother could march into Hogwarts and drag him to Azkaban with her. But none of his reasoning seemed to quell the terrible sense of dread that blanketed him like a cloak.

***

They could not have asked for better weather—it was so warm that Draco shrugged off his cloak as they settled into the Slytherin box. After weeks of anticipation, the excitement was palpable. The Gryffindors were unbearably rowdy; they shouted themselves hoarse as Madam Hooch strode onto the pitch. And, while the Slytherins were more subdued, many of them wore emerald green hats, cloaks, and scarves. Pressed between Blaise and Pansy, Draco tried to tune out the cacophony. It would be mortifying to have one of his flashbacks during a Quidditch game.

“Look!” Pansy squeezed his arm and pointed towards the commentator’s podium. There sat Luna Lovegood, staring out at the pitch dreamily. “I can’t believe they’ve asked Lovegood again. McGonagall’s not happy.”

Draco snorted; even from a distance, McGonagall looked as though she had swallowed something sour. Pansy said something else, but he couldn’t hear her, because the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams were finally marching out onto the pitch, to deafening cheers and applause. Draco instantly spotted Harry, who had his Firebolt swung over his shoulder. He swore he saw Harry look up at the Slytherin box; the thought sent a rush of excitement through him. Appalled, he told himself to get a grip.

It was very odd, watching the Slytherin team walk out onto the field while he was seated in the stands. But he told himself he didn’t mind. Draco’s stomach gave a painful lurch as he recalled the last time he had been on a broomstick—he could still remember the smell of burning flesh, Vincent’s inhuman screams. Involuntarily, his hands curled into fists.

 _‘Relax,’_ he told himself. _‘You’re fine. Harry’s there. He’s right there.’_

Harry and Harper shook hands, and then, at the shrill blast of Hooch’s whistle, they kicked off. Lovegood’s otherworldly voice filled the air.

“Ginny Weasley from Gryffindor has the Quaffle, there she goes…oh, and she’s passed it to Demelza Robins…I don’t know much about her. And she’s passed it back to Ginny…and there’s Felix Harper, looking for the Snitch. That’s a nice name, Felix. A man named Felix invented Cheering Charms, I think…Felix Summerbee…”

Next to him, Blaise was cackling. Half of the Slytherin box jumped up as Pritchard blocked Robins from scoring.

“Ah, well, she nearly managed,” Lovegood was saying. “And now one of the Slytherin Chasers has the Quaffle…look at him go…”

“Baddock!” McGonagall barked into Lovegood’s megaphone.

“Baddock, yes…and he’s passed it to Vaisey…Avem Vaisey. He’s in my Charms class this year. Always keeps to himself, though…”

Draco meant to watch the match, but his eyes were on Harry. He would be lying if he said he didn’t look nice in his crimson Quidditch robes. It was becoming increasingly clear that Draco hadn’t been mistaken—Harry _was_ looking his way, peering over at the Slytherin box with a little smile on his face. He wondered whether Harry had thought at all about their last meeting in the forest, because he certainly had. In fact, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on much else. He studied Harry’s gloved hands as they grasped his broomstick, remembering the way Harry had hugged him. Something very warm poured through him, and he tried to focus on Vaisey as he sped past with the Quaffle, but it was so difficult when Harry was right there.

He was startled out of his reverie as everyone around him jumped to their feet, screaming—over the din, Draco heard Lovegood say: “Yes, very nicely done, Avem…oh, Ron doesn’t look happy…”

McGonagall cut her off: “Ten-zero to Slytherin!”

Harry had sped off to circle the pitch. There were angry boos from the Slytherins as Peakes swung a Bludger towards Baddock so forcefully that he was nearly thrown off his broom.

“They’re playing to win, aren’t they?” Blaise said, shouting to be heard.

“Oh, look, look at Potter!” Pansy was on the edge of her seat, pointing towards the sky.

Draco’s heart froze as he saw Harry diving towards the ground; in an instant, Harper was next to him, although he couldn’t quite keep up as Harry put his Firebolt through its paces. At the last second, he yanked upwards and shot off after the Snitch, Harper right on his tail.

“Harry must have spotted the Snitch,” came Lovegood’s serene voice. “It would be a shame if he caught it so soon, though, the match has only just begun…let’s hope he doesn’t…”

“She’s mad,” Blaise said, shaking his head in awe.

But Draco was hardly listening to Lovegood; his eyes were fixed on Harry as he hurtled after the Snitch. As the Seekers flit through the air, Baddock scored another point for Slytherin, bringing the score to twenty-zero.

“Look at Potter go!” someone said behind them. “He can really fly, can’t he?”

Even as he told himself he was being stupid, Draco couldn’t help the little burst of pride in his chest. Because Harry really _could_ fly, he was an excellent Seeker, he handled his broomstick as though it was a part of him...

There was a loud _thwack_ from a Beater’s bat. Pansy gripped Draco’s arm so tightly that her nails dug into his skin—“Draco!” she cried, pointing at the Bludger as it careened towards Harry. But he dodged it easily enough, veering off course so sharply that Harper had to swerve to avoid him. There were groans of disappointment from Gryffindor as it became clear that the Snitch had escaped.

“And there goes the Snitch…well, they did their best,” Lovegood said. “And now, let’s see…oh, there’s the Quaffle, Natalie McDonald has it…or no, that’s Demelza. They both have brown hair. It would be so much easier if they chose players who didn’t look alike, wouldn’t it?”

Harry was back to hovering in the middle of the pitch. Draco’s heart gave another squeeze as Harry glanced towards the Slytherin box once, and then again, and then a third time.

And then came Lovegood’s dreamy voice: “It’s funny, Harry keeps looking over at the Slytherin box. It could be a Wrackspurt, making his brain fuzzy…”

Draco knew he was as red as Harry’s robes. Although Lovegood hadn’t pinpointed who exactly Harry was looking at—it could have been anyone—he still slunk down between Blaise and Pansy.

“Sit up, Draco,” Pansy hissed. “You’re making it worse.” Her expression was torn between exasperation and amusement.

Harry, for his part, seemed unfazed by Lovegood’s commentary. He grinned once more in Draco’s direction and then continued to scout for the Snitch.

“You took my advice, then?” Blaise said mildly.

“What advice?”

“Didn’t I tell you to get on with it? With shagging Potter?”

“ _What?”_ Pansy gasped, clutching Draco’s arm again. “You—Draco, did you really?”

Furious, Draco glared at Blaise. “I didn’t. I told you, I’ve been meeting him for help…” Even under the cover of the cheers and applause around them, Draco still lowered his voice as he said, “With my Mark.”

“Really?” said Blaise, sounding unconvinced.

“We’re just friends.”

“Oh, Draco, you’re a terrible liar,” Pansy said. “I’ve never had a friend look at me like _that_ before.”

“He didn’t look at me like anything!” Draco protested. But he felt funny as her words sunk in. She had seen it, too, then. It hadn’t just been his imagination.

“You could just tell us, you know, save us all the—oh!”

Draco winced as Pansy dug into his arm. Harry had surged forward, sweeping past Coote and rounding a bend. Lovegood hadn’t even seemed to notice—she was busy describing the method for detecting a Wrackspurt—but all around them people were shouting as they watched Harry tear after the Snitch. Harper was at the other end of the pitch—he had no chance, no chance at all of catching up—Harry had stretched out his hand, and he was flat against his broom, and Draco’s heart was pounding in his chest—

“Oh, he’s got it!” Lovegood said cheerfully as Harry soared into the air, the Snitch held high. The Gryffindors erupted into cheers so thunderous that Blaise covered his ears, muttering irritably, while the Slytherins groaned around them. But Draco found that he didn’t care, because Harry was grinning as his team flew out to congratulate him mid-air, still clutching the Snitch as they pummeled his back and hugged him.

“Well, our Chasers weren’t too bad, were they?” Pansy sighed. “We can’t have expected Harper to beat Potter.”

It suddenly became very hectic as everyone stood up, pulling on their cloaks and making their way down the stands. Draco braced himself for the gripping panic he usually felt in noisy crowds, but it didn’t come. Instead, he found himself craning his neck to see where Harry had gotten to.

“Go and see him, then,” Blaise said as they started down the stands.

“Draco,” Pansy said, looping her arm through his. “Are you _actually?_ With…Potter?”

Draco was saved from having to answer when the man in question came climbing up the stands. Harry’s cheeks were ruddy, his eyes bright. The crowd parted to let him through—many of the younger students stared up at him in awe, while the sixth and seventh years were quick to congratulate him on a good game. Harry gave them a tight, awkward smile before finding Draco. There was no way he could mistake the way Harry’s face lit up as their eyes met.

“Can you come with me?” Harry asked breathlessly. Addressing Blaise and Pansy, he added, “It’ll only be a minute.”

Pansy was clinging so tightly to Draco that he felt his circulation cutting off. Gently, he pried her fingers away, muttering, “It’s fine. I’ll tell you everything later.”

She looked very much as though she wanted to say something, but Blaise—thankfully—dragged her away. For the second time in the last hour, Draco felt everyone’s eyes on him. He followed Harry down the stands, telling himself to ignore the whispers. He expected Harry to lead him onto the pitch, where the Gryffindor team was still loudly recounting the highlights of the match, but instead they headed for the teachers’ box.

“I’m glad you’re with me,” Harry said. He was straightening out his robes.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He flattened his fringe nervously. “Everything’s fine, I think. You’ll see.”

The stands were empty save for a stout little wizard dressed in yellow and black robes. His unshaven face split into a wide grin as he caught sight of them; bouncing to his feet, he hurried down, holding out his hand as he approached them.

“Delius Dawson, Mr. Potter, at your service,” he said in a loud, booming voice. He shook Harry’s hand vigorously before turning to Draco. “And this is…?”

Harry glanced over at Draco. “This is my, er…”

“Draco Malfoy.” He offered his hand.

“Malfoy, you said?” There was a second where Draco could have sworn he saw the man’s eyes widen in surprise, but then he reached out and pumped Draco’s hand, clasping his shoulder. “Very nice to meet you, Delius Dawson…”

“I’m really glad you could make it, Mr. Dawson,” Harry said.

“Not at all, it wasn’t a trouble,” he said, finally letting go of Draco’s hand. “Ludo would have been here, of course, but he’s never in one spot for too long these days. Still, you're a fine Seeker, Mr. Potter! I’m very happy with what I saw today.”

“You are, sir?” Harry looked as though he couldn’t believe it.

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Dawson was rummaging through his cloak pockets. “I have to check…just a moment…” He pulled out an enormous brass pocket watch. “Nearly noon, my goodness gracious, I do need to run, boys.” Tucking away his watch, he asked, “When does Gryffindor play next?”

“Not until March, sir,” Harry said.

“Good, good, that gives us time…and perhaps I’ll come by for a team practice sometime, eh?”

“That…that would be great.”

“Wonderful! Then it’s settled. I’ll write to you in the spring. In the meantime, I really must be going…Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy…” He shook their hands once more before sauntering off the pitch.

Harry sat down, watching Mr. Dawson as he bounced away. “That went alright, I think.”

Slowly, Draco sat next to him. “Who was he?”

“He’s a scout. For the Wimbourne Wasps.”

“What?” He gaped at Harry, not sure he had heard correctly.

“Yeah.” Harry shrugged, a nervous smile on his face. “He knows Viktor Krum, and Krum mentioned that he’s seen me fly—at the Tournament, you know—so Mr. Dawson wrote me over the summer. Their Seeker is retiring.”

“Harry. This is a big deal.”

“I guess so,” Harry said. He was fidgeting with his glove. “But I’m sure they’re considering loads of other people, and today’s match…it was fine, but it isn’t like Harper’s the best Seeker there’s ever been.”

“You dodged that Bludger easily. You caught the Snitch so quickly Harper couldn’t sort out what was happening.”

“I just wish the team had done better,” Harry muttered, staring out onto the pitch. “It’s all the stupid fighting, the arguments…” After a moment, he said, “I’m glad you were here with me. That's why I kept bugging you to come to the match. I wanted you with me, when I met Mr. Dawson.”

“Really?” Draco asked, surprised. “Why? I didn’t even say anything.”

“I was nervous,” Harry admitted. “I’ve been nervous for weeks. I didn’t want to meet him alone. I knew I’d be less anxious, if you were here.”

He was stunned into silence. It was strange, first of all, to think of Harry as nervous. Over the years, Draco had come to see him as self-assured, confident, if not outright arrogant. And then there was the fact that Harry had wanted him there to assuage his nerves. Unwilling to reveal how pleased he was, Draco said, “But what about Weasley? Or Granger?”

Harry gave a deep, weary sigh. “Hermione doesn’t like the idea of me becoming a professional Quidditch player. She thinks it’s impractical. People get injuries, and they retire early…She wants me to get a proper job at the Ministry. And Ron, he’s…”

“Jealous?”

“What? No.” Harry shook his head absently. “He’s disappointed. He thought we’d do Auror training together, after Hogwarts. He’s happy for me, I think, but it’s a bit awkward.”

“Right.” As far as Weasley was concerned, Draco had all sorts of insults ready, but he didn’t think they would be very well received.

Harry glanced at Draco, his brows furrowed in worry. “But you think it went well, today? You think I have a chance?”

“He said he’ll be back for the next game, didn’t he?” Draco said. “I doubt he would bother unless he was interested.”

“And you’re not just saying that to be nice?”

Draco gave him a wry smile. “When have I ever said things just to be nice?”

That seemed to cheer Harry up considerably. Grinning, he said, “Yeah. I think it went okay. And we beat Slytherin.”

“I’m sure you’re pleased,” Draco said.

“I told you we would.” Harry took a moment to scan the pitch; it was empty. “Well, I’d better get to the changing room, before they send out a search party. But I’ll see you tonight, right?”

“Tonight?” Draco snorted. “Everyone will want to celebrate your victory.”

Harry was still looking out at the field when he said, “I want to see you. Let's work on your Mark tonight."

"Alright," Draco said faintly.

Harry’s hand twitched, and for a second Draco thought he might reach for him. Instead he stood, a funny look on his face as he said, “Come on, let’s get going.”

As they exited the teachers’ box, Harry reached forward and grasped Draco’s wrist. He hesitated, and then said, “I’d hug you right now. I want to. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Draco made a stupid, strangled noise. He couldn’t think of what to say.

Harry gave Draco a soft smile, squeezing his wrist before he pulled away. “Tonight, then. See you later.”

“See you,” Draco muttered, rooted to the spot as Harry traipsed across the field. It took him several moments to regain the use of his feet. 


	4. Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my friends...this fic will now have five parts. I just couldn't do it justice by cramming everything into four chapters. I hope to have the last part to you soon! In the meantime, please enjoy.

Draco was sorely tempted to avoid Pansy and Blaise—he considered walking to Hogsmeade, or hiding in the library, or perhaps finding an empty classroom where they wouldn’t disturb him. But he had learned by now that it was best to confront these things directly. The longer Pansy had to stew, the more fanciful her conjectures would become. And so he braced himself and headed back to the castle, where lunch was being served in the Great Hall. Just as he had expected, his friends had their heads together at the end of the Slytherin table, speaking in hushed voices over their servings of scouse. When Draco sat down next to Pansy, she looked up at him in surprise.

“Draco!” She reached forward and gripped his arm. “Are you alright? What did Potter want?”

He only then realized that he hadn’t asked Harry how much he should, or should not, reveal about Mr. Dawson and his plan to play Quidditch professionally. Erring on the side of caution, he said, “Nothing. He just wanted to ask if we’re meeting tonight, to work on my Mark.”

“That can’t have been all,” Pansy said at once.

Draco held up his hand to quiet her; he had expected the skeptical looks on their faces. “I’ll tell you what’s going on, but you need to drop it after that. Alright?”

“No, not alright.” Pansy set down her fork and crossed her arms. “You’ve been acting oddly all term. You need to tell us what’s going on. We’re _worried_ about you, Draco.”

“Fine.” He couldn’t bear to lie anymore. And even as Pansy’s persistence grated on him, Draco also felt a surge of affection for her as she once again refused to be anything but steadfast. The trouble was, he didn’t know where to start.

As though sensing his predicament, Blaise said quietly, “You’ve been meeting since the start of term. To get rid of your Mark.”

“Right.” Draco glanced around to see if anyone had overheard, but nobody seemed to notice them. “It was awkward, at first. But then, I can’t remember how, but we started talking. About classes, and Quidditch, and whatever else. And he wasn’t…horrible. He was alright.” To give himself something to do, Draco reached for the ladle and poured stew into his bowl.

“And then what happened?” Pansy breathed.

“And then…I don’t know. We got to know each other. A while ago, he told me we’re friends.”

Pansy opened her mouth to speak, but Blaise settled his hand on her arm. To Draco’s surprise, she sat back, lips pursed.

“There isn’t much else to say.” Draco stabbed halfheartedly at a carrot. “Whatever you think is happening—it isn’t. At all.”

“But you wish it was,” Blaise said.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why?” Pansy asked. “Why doesn’t it matter?”

“Because…come off it, he’s Harry Potter,” Draco said. It was as close to an admission as he could muster, and Pansy must have known, because she suddenly leaned forward to wrap an arm around him.

“Oh, Draco,” she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “I knew this would happen. Didn’t I tell you?”

“He isn’t _dying_ , Pansy,” Blaise scoffed.

“You’re so insensitive!” she snapped. She pulled away from Draco and instead rounded on Blaise, who rolled his eyes. “Draco’s upset! He’s hurt!”

“Just tell him, Draco,” Blaise said. “Tell him the truth.”

“No.” Draco pushed his bowl away; his stomach was in knots, driving away any appetite he might have had. “Absolutely not.”

“Why? He was staring at you the entire match.”

“That’s true,” Pansy agreed. “Maybe you _should_ tell him.”

“No.”

“What are you going to do, then?” Blaise snorted. “Pine after him for the rest of the year?”

“Piss off,” Draco muttered. He was beginning to regret his forthrightness.

“Draco.” He looked up in surprise at the serious note in Blaise’s voice. “I’m going to tell you this once, and then we’re going to pretend it never happened. Alright?”

He nodded mutely.

As Blaise studied him with his dark, clever eyes, Draco felt as though he was being opened up for examination. Finally, he said, “You’re overthinking. Everyone could see how Potter looked at you today. I know you think you don’t deserve this, but you do.” He paused. Draco had the sense that he was supposed to respond, but he couldn’t make his mouth work. When he merely sat there, staring stupidly, Blaise sighed. “Talk to him. Tell him. You’re going to miss your chance, and then Pansy and I will have to listen to you whine about it for the next ten years.”

“He’s right, Draco,” Pansy murmured.

“And that’s my last word on it,” Blaise said briskly, picking up his spoon and turning back to his stew. “Have either of you heard from Theo lately?”

Draco’s thoughts were racing by so quickly that he struggled to catch hold of them. Blaise had only been this frank with him once before—a tense night in their sixth year, when he had begun to suspect what Draco was planning and urged him to go to Dumbledore. “Talk to him,” he had said. And here he was again, urging Draco to speak up for himself, to be vulnerable, to be open. The trouble was, he had spent years perfecting the art of closing himself off, of compartmentalizing his emotions until they were firmly locked away in the back of his mind. To be vulnerable, he had learned, was to leave oneself open to all manner of betrayal. And he didn’t know if he could stand to be let down again.

***

Little pinpricks burst across his arm as Harry examined the Mark, but Draco found that he didn’t mind. He was too busy trying to act as though he wasn’t nervous, as though he hadn’t spent hours upon hours wondering how he should behave around Harry. He had never felt like this before. In admitting to himself that he liked Harry, it was as though a dam had been struck open, and the deluge swallowed him up as he struggled to remain afloat.

Harry, on the other hand, was as nonchalant as ever, brows furrowed as he examined Draco’s arm.

“Has it hurt much?” he asked, reaching back to pull out his wand.

“Not really,” Draco said. “Not more than usual.”

“Good. And the flashbacks?”

“Erm…I haven’t had one since Potions.”

Harry hummed to himself, pressing the tip of his wand against Draco’s arm, when suddenly he remembered.

“Wait, no, that’s not true. This morning, at breakfast, before the match—it was weird. It wasn’t a flashback, not exactly, but it was close. It felt like something awful was going to happen.”

Harry drew his wand away. “What set you off? Can you remember?”

“A letter from my mother.” Draco felt rather pathetic—it had taken hordes of Dementors to bring Harry down, while he nearly fainted at the sight of a bloody letter.

“What did she say?”

“She’s angry with me,” he admitted. “Wants me to go to Azkaban with her, to see my father. She’s been nagging me since the start of term.”

“You haven’t gone?” Harry asked. He sounded surprised.

“No,” he said curtly. “And I’m not planning on it, either.”

“Right. But you felt panicked?”

“Yeah. Just…really unwell.”

“I’ll ask Hermione again,” Harry said, a doubtful look on his face. “We can skip tonight, if you want. Give you a break.”

“We’re almost done.” Draco nodded towards his arm. “I’ll be fine. Go on.”

He hardly flinched at the cold press of Harry’s wand on his skin. “Ready?” he asked. Draco nodded. Harry took a deep breath, as though steeling himself, and then said, “Three…two…one…”

_He was back in the cellar with Ollivander. There came another crash from upstairs. Draco crouched down and shook his shoulder. “Please, wake up,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please.”_

_By some miracle, Ollivander stirred._

_“We have to go upstairs,” Draco said. “Please. He’s angry.”_

_The elderly man shook his head, groaning. “Thirsty.”_

_“Right. Right.” Even as he heard his aunt shrieking for him upstairs, Draco conjured a little goblet and filled it with water. He held it up to Ollivander’s lips, nearly missing in the dark. He drank greedily, spilling half of it down his front._

_“Easy,” Draco muttered. “Easy.”_

_They both reacted as they heard the Dark Lord’s voice. Ollivander choked on his water while Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “He just wants to ask about the wands,” Draco said weakly. “That’s all, and then I’ll bring you back here…and then I’ll bring you something, something to eat…”_

_He gripped Ollivander’s arm, which had become so thin that he feared it might snap beneath his fingers. “Up, come on, get up, please…”_

Draco eased out of the memory as though awakening from a dream. Ollivander’s dirty, broken face disappeared as he blinked up at the sky.

“It was the same memory,” he said. He flexed his fingers—he swore he could still feel the touch of Ollivander’s frail arm. “Wasn’t it?”

Harry was silent for a moment as he twisted his wand into Draco’s Mark, muttering. The pain pinched at him, but it wasn’t unbearable. Finally, he pulled his wand away and replaced it with his warm, gentle fingers. “Yeah, it was,” he said. “The one we didn’t erase before.”

“I thought so.”

“How do you feel?”

“Not bad,” he said truthfully. “Maybe it’s easier, when you’ve already seen the memory before.”

“Maybe.” Harry was tracing little figures on his arm. “You got through it this time. I’m glad.”

“So am I.”

Harry shifted, and his leg came to rest against Draco’s. “Check your Mark. Does it look any different?”

Reluctantly, Draco pulled his arm away and held it a few inches from his face. “Not really.”

“Next time, it’ll change. Don’t worry.”

Draco thought it would be terribly presumptuous to place his arm back on Harry’s lap, and so he brought his hands to rest on his stomach instead. Summoning his courage, he said quietly, “Let’s go again. Another one.”

“What?” Harry said, surprised. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can do it. I feel fine.”

“Draco, no.”

“But we already saw that one! And my Mark looks the same. It didn’t bother me, I swear.”

Harry’s apprehension was written all over his face. In a soft voice, he murmured, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Draco said at once. “You could never hurt me.”

There was a tense pause as Harry blinked at him. Draco was so certain that he would refuse that he almost didn’t believe it when Harry sighed, holding up his wand. “Fine. Give me your arm.”

“You’re angry,” Draco said.

“I’m not angry. Just…just worried.”

“Don’t be.”

Silently, Harry reached out and pulled Draco’s arm onto his lap. “Are you ready?”

Draco nodded.

“Right then. Three…two…one…”

_Draco was never called home from school. Never. He wavered in the foyer, unsure whether to head upstairs to his mother’s room or to check the study, but the decision was made for him when Severus appeared in the hall._

_“Draco,” he said. “Come.”_

_The silence was ominous. Usually, the Manor was filled with all sorts of noise during the day: the Death Eaters could be counted on to fight regularly enough, and there was ordinarily a flurry of activity as people came and went. But now, Draco heard nothing but the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the marble floor and slipped into the study. Severus was tense. He stood next to the armchair the Dark Lord usually occupied, gripping the back so tightly that his knuckles turned white._

_“Sit,” he said, indicating the suede sofa. By the look on his face, Draco knew it wasn’t prudent to disobey. He sank down slowly, heart pounding as he wondered what, exactly, was going on._

_“Where is everyone?” he asked._

_“There’s been a problem at the Ministry.” Severus’ dark eyes shone in the dim light. “Your father’s incompetence has surpassed anything I could have imagined.”_

_“Meaning what?” Draco said hotly. Even though they were at odds, he couldn’t help the familiar urge to defend his father._

_“Meaning he is currently on his way to Azkaban,” Severus hissed. “Along with nearly a dozen others.”_

_“_ What? _” Draco jumped to his feet. “And where’s my mother?”_

_“Upstairs, tending to her sister. She’s hysterical.” When Draco stared at him blankly, Severus’ lip curled. “Oh, yes, your aunt Bellatrix managed to escape, thanks to the Dark Lord.”_

_“He was there?” Draco whispered. “But I don’t understand—how—”_

_“Listen to me.” Severus came around to the front of the chair. “The Dark Lord will be here at any moment. He is furious. I’ve never seen him so angry.”_

_“But what happened? What was my father supposed to do at the Ministry?”_

_Severus continued as though he had not interrupted. “The Dark Lord will be looking for someone to punish. You and your mother will be at the top of his list. I have a sense of what he is going to ask—and for once in your life, you need to be_ prudent, _to proceed with caution.”_

_“What’s he going to do?” Draco asked, terrified. “Crucio?”_

_“Unforgivable Curses will be the least of your worries,” Severus said. “He is going to want you to join the Death Eaters, to take the Mark. And you need to put him off for as long as you can.”_

_Just then, there came a series of loud_ bangs _and a high-pitched shriek. Severus drew away, and Draco felt as though he was going to be sick—he wasn’t even of age, he was still a student, there was no way the Dark Lord could expect him to join…He couldn’t, he wouldn’t survive it…_

Harry’s hand was on his shoulder, holding him down. The pain in his arm was so great that he couldn’t help but try to yank away. “Hurts,” he mumbled, gritting his teeth against the ripples of agony.

“Done, I’m done,” Harry said. The moment he took his hand away, Draco cradled his arm against his chest. Little flashes of the memory they had just witnessed leapt before him: Severus’ stern face, his glittering eyes, and the most horrible sense of dread—something terrible had happened.

“What was it?” Draco asked. He rubbed his arm absently.

“You were at the Manor,” Harry said. His face was pale. “It was empty. And then Snape was there, and he said Voldemort was angry—because of what happened in the Department of Mysteries, with your father, with the prophecy.”

“Fuck, it burns.” His arm felt as though it had just been doused in Fiendfyre.

“We should’ve waited, given you time to rest,” Harry said. He sounded cross.

“No, no, it’s fine…it hurts, that’s all…I just need a minute…”

Harry was silent for a moment. Then, “Look at your Mark. It’s better.”

Draco forced himself to glance down at the Mark. It was indeed lighter.

“It can’t be much longer, now. Just a few more times.”

“Severus knew, didn’t he?” Draco croaked. “He knew I was going to be punished for my father’s mistakes.”

Harry exhaled. “Yeah.”

Draco brought his hands up to rub his face. “He kept trying to save me.”

“He managed,” Harry said quietly. “You’re still here.”

“Oh, yes, how wonderful,” Draco sneered. “I’m enjoying myself so much, as you can see.”

“Don’t say that,” Harry whispered. Draco winced at the hurt in his voice. “You’re here. That’s what matters.”

“Right.” Draco took a deep breath, allowing the chilly November air to fill up his lungs.

“Are you okay?”

“Tired. Just so, so tired.” Everything seemed to weigh down on him all at once: the bizarre, complicated emotions he felt whenever he was around Harry; his terrible relationship with his parents; the sharp pains emanating from his arm; and, at the back of his mind, the grief and regret that had become his constant companions.

“Let’s wait for a bit,” Harry said. “Until you feel better.”

Draco closed his eyes. There was a part of him that wanted to ask Harry for a hug—at one point, he cleared his throat, preparing himself to ask—but he couldn’t work up the courage. The familiar sounds of the forest hummed around them: the barren branches dancing in the breeze, the distant hoots of owls hunting. There were, occasionally, stranger noises, of creatures groaning and critters squealing. But he was now so accustomed to the vagaries of life in the forest—felt almost a part of it, in some ways—that he hardly noticed. Each time he breathed in, his stomach swelled against his palms until he slowly exhaled. In increments, the pain in his arm simmered down to a mere sting.

“Can I touch you?” Harry asked. When Draco nodded, Harry brought his hand up to rest on his forehead. If it had been anyone else, he would have flinched, especially when Harry began to thread his fingers through Draco’s hair. His throat was so tight that it ached; he felt as though he might cry.

 _‘You’re being stupid,’_ he chastised himself. _‘There’s nothing to cry about, you idiot.’_ He was certain that there must be some explanation for why he wanted to cry whenever people showed him the slightest kindness, but he was too drained to think of it right then. Tears prickled behind his eyelids. He nearly brought his hand up to brush them away, but he hesitated; Harry might see. When Draco felt the tears finally slip from his eyes and onto his cheeks, he turned his head away, praying that Harry wouldn’t notice. If he did, he said nothing. He simply carried on with running his fingers through Draco’s hair as though he had done it hundreds of times before.

A few more tears trickled down Draco’s face. He allowed them to. In the cover of the darkness, he felt safe. They sat like that for some time, Draco absently aware of Harry humming to himself. He wondered what his mother was doing. If she was at the Manor, whether she had redecorated or not. And, very briefly, he allowed himself to think of his father. Alone in Azkaban, with only the Dementors for company. He told himself that he didn’t care.

He jumped when Harry said, “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” His automatic answer. Hastily, he wiped his face.

“Still tired?”

“Yeah. Tired.” His stomach rumbled; he hadn’t eaten at dinner. “And hungry.”

“You’re hungry?” Harry’s hand froze against his forehead. “You should have said something.”

“I only just realized.”

“Do you think you can walk back now?” Harry asked. He nodded, and Harry pulled away. “Let’s get you something to eat, then. Come on.”

Draco allowed Harry to help him to his feet. “Breakfast isn’t for hours,” Draco said, groaning as his Mark burned. “It’s fine, I can wait.”

Harry had a funny little smile on his face. “Just follow me.”

They walked back to the castle in silence. When they arrived in the entrance hall, Harry motioned for Draco to follow him through a door and down a flight of stone steps. They entered a bright corridor decorated with paintings of food: a roast chicken on a platter of vegetables, a loaf of sourdough, a single fried egg. Harry stopped in front of a painting of a silver fruit bowl.

“Harry,” Draco said, looking around nervously. “Where _are_ we?”

Grinning, Harry reached out and tickled the enormous pear. To Draco’s amazement, it writhed and laughed before turning into a green handle. Harry pulled the door open and gestured for him to enter. The great, high-ceilinged room reminded him sharply of the kitchens at the Manor, although much larger: an incredible expanse of counters lined the walls, weighed down by stacks of pots and pans. At the centre of the room were tables identical to those in the Great Hall.

“We’re in the kitchens,” Draco said, astounded.

“Yeah. Everyone’s probably asleep, though, so let’s see what we can find…” They had barely taken a step forward when they heard a door burst open at the far end of the room. Two house-elves came spilling out: one of them had bulbous eyes and great, bat-like ears, while the other was perhaps the oldest house-elf Draco had ever seen. They both wore neat little uniforms.

“Master Harry!” the ancient house-elf called as he hurried towards them. “Master should have said he was coming—Kreacher wasn’t expecting him, Kreacher could have prepared his favourites—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Harry said. “Go back to sleep. Pretend we aren’t even here.”

But the smaller house-elf had flung herself at Harry and was gripping his waist. “Harry Potter, sir!” she squeaked. “Winky has been missing you, sir!”

“It’s after midnight,” Harry said. He was patting her head. “I’m sorry, we were trying to be quiet.”

“Of course Kreacher recognized Master’s voice.” The old house-elf drew himself up with pride as he spoke.

“This is Draco,” Harry said, nodding towards him. “He’s a…a friend of mine.”

The house-elf named Kreacher looked up at him with his pale eyes. “Draco Malfoy,” he said, a note of awe in his voice. “You are Miss Cissy’s son. And a cousin to Master Sirius and Master Regulus.”

“First cousin once removed,” Draco muttered. He shifted nervously at the incredulous look on Kreacher’s face.

“Is there anything left from dinner?” Harry asked, peering around.

Kreacher settled into a deep bow, his nose nearly touching the floor. “Come, please, come sit, Master Harry, your favourite spot…”

Harry protested, but it didn’t seem to matter. Winky and Kreacher led them to the furthest table, ensuring they were comfortable before heading off to rummage through the cupboards.

Draco had a hundred questions, but he couldn’t decide what to ask first. Looking around the vast room, he finally said, “I’ve never been in the kitchens before. How did you know how to get in?”

“Fred and George told us ages ago,” Harry said. He seemed very pleased with himself when he added, “Dobby used to work here, so I came to visit him.”

“Dobby?” Draco frowned. “He was my parents’ elf. He rescued you, at the Manor. Does he not work here anymore?”

The smile dropped from Harry’s face. Draco’s heart sunk as Harry looked away, gazing over at Winky and Kreacher as they bustled about. In an odd, flat voice, he said, “Dobby died.”

“What?” Draco didn’t know how to feel. He hadn’t known Dobby very well—he had been his father’s house-elf, and mostly relegated to the kitchen—but he had been loyal to Harry. He had saved Harry’s life. “I’m…I’m really sorry.”

Harry fiddled with a knot on the wooden table. “Yeah, he…at the Manor. Bellatrix threw her knife at us. And she hit Dobby. He died saving us.”

Before he could think twice, Draco reached out and grasped Harry’s hand where it lay on the table. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know…didn’t know you were friends…”

“Yeah. You wouldn’t believe how many times he saved my neck,” Harry said, chuckling weakly. He glanced down at Draco’s hand, where it rested atop his. “At the Tournament, he’s the one who gave me the gillyweed, to breathe underwater…and he told me about the Room of Requirement, for Dumbledore’s Army…and then in sixth year…” Harry gave him a sheepish smile. “I asked him to spy on you.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You drove me mad…I couldn’t figure out where you were going, what you were doing. It wasn’t until Dobby told me you were on the seventh floor that I realized you were in the Room of Requirement.”

Draco shook his head in disbelief. “I had no idea.”

“It didn’t matter, anyway, because I couldn’t enter the Room while you were in there.” Harry shrugged. “And then at the Manor, well…you saw for yourself. He saved our lives.”

Draco jumped when Kreacher appeared next to them, two cups of tea in his hands. “Please, Masters, please enjoy,” he said. Suddenly embarrassed, Draco pulled his hand away from Harry’s and fiddled with his cup.

“Milk? Sugar? Lemon? Honey?”

They both shook their heads. Kreacher gave another bow and then scurried away.

“He brought us to Shell Cottage,” Harry continued. His eyes were trained on the table. “That’s where Bill—Bill Weasley, Ron’s older brother—and Fleur live. And I buried him there, in the garden. It’s right by the sea…it’s really nice…but anyway…”

Draco would have given anything to come up with a comforting reply, but he was terrible in these sorts of situations. As kindly as he could, he said, “I’m sure he would have liked that.”

Harry took a sip of his tea. Not knowing what else to do, Draco followed suit. After a moment, Harry said, “Can you tell me anything about him? From when you were younger?”

“Oh. Er.” Draco set down his cup. The shame that welled up in him was so strong he felt ill. “The thing is, I…I didn’t really see him much. House-elves are treated…they aren’t really…they aren’t supposed to be seen…”

“I know.” Harry, to his relief, didn’t seem angry. “You were just a kid.”

“Well…” Draco racked his brain, trying desperately to recall a pleasant memory of Dobby. “The summer before our first year, we had family staying with us, from Strasbourg. They were awful. So I used to hide in the kitchen, and Dobby would give me sweets, little pastries, stuff like that. I would watch him cook.”

It wasn’t much, but Harry beamed at him.

Kreacher came towards them again, this time clutching a large platter of sandwiches. “Egg and cress, Masters…Kreacher would have made Master Harry’s favourites, if only he had known…”

“This is brilliant, Kreacher,” Harry said happily.

Kreacher’s wizened face broke into a toothy grin as his slid the platter onto the table. His ears fluttered as he trotted away.

Reaching for a sandwich, Draco said, “How do you know those two, then? Kreacher, is it? And Winky?”

“Winky…it’s a long story.” Harry took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. “She was sacked, and then she met Dobby. They came to Hogwarts together. She was really upset at first, but she’s come around.” In a low voice, he said, “Don’t mention Dobby to her, though. She cries every time we talk about him.”

“Right.”

“And Kreacher served the Black family. When Sirius died, he left everything to me, including his house. And that’s how I sort of…inherited him. It was Dumbledore’s idea to have him work here. I’ve told him he could go back to Grimmauld—to Sirius’ old house, if he wants to—but he’d be lonely. And he likes it here.”

“I know Grimmauld Place,” Draco said. “I’ve never been—I don’t think anyone could get in, when Sirius was in Azkaban—but I’ve heard of it. It belonged to my Great-Aunt Walburga.”

“That’s right,” Harry said. “I’d forgotten about that. I should bring you sometime—it’s terrible, we tried to clean it up and make it livable, but it still isn’t great—but there’s a tapestry in the drawing room. It shows the Black family tree. And you’re on it.”

“Am I?” Draco asked, surprised.

“Yeah. I guess that’s how Kreacher knew who you were.”

They watched as Kreacher and Winky puttered about the kitchen. Draco had already finished off two sandwiches. “You come here often, then?” Draco asked.

“Here, have more.” Harry pushed the platter towards him. “And, yeah, when I can. It’s nice to get away. No one else comes here.”

Draco took another sandwich and bit into it. He wondered what Pansy and Blaise might say if they knew where he was—in the Hogwarts kitchens, enjoying a midnight snack with Harry. Blaise’s words echoed in his head. It was, Draco thought, much more difficult to imagine telling Harry how he felt when Harry was _right there,_ the sleeves of his navy jumper pushed up to his elbows, one foot bouncing against the floor, a little smile on his face as he watched Draco eat. At that moment, Draco was very glad that Harry—according to Severus—had always been a lousy Occlumens.

“Do you feel better?” Harry asked.

He nodded. “I don’t know why it bothers me so much, erasing the memories. It’s stupid…I’m just laying there, doing nothing…”

“It bothered me a lot,” Harry said quietly. “The first memory we saw—Hermione said it was something about my aunt shouting at me. So that didn’t really matter.”

“Shouting at you?” Draco asked. “Why was she shouting at you?”

“It’s a long story,” Harry said, waving his hand dismissively. “I’ll tell you sometime.”

“Right.”

“But then the second one…it was about Sirius. And, God, it was awful.”

Draco set his sandwich down. He suddenly felt sick. “Did you erase it? The memory?”

“No,” Harry said. “It wasn’t really important—just Sirius and I cleaning stuff at Grimmauld Place, having a laugh, you know—but I stopped Hermione before she could erase it.”

“Is that why you stopped?” he asked. “You didn’t want to lose your memories?”

“Partly.” Harry pushed back his chair and looked up at the great ceiling. “But mostly, I just couldn’t take it. I felt sick after. It was almost like being around the Dementors.”

Draco closed his eyes as a shudder passed through him. If he focused on it too long, he knew exactly the sensation Harry was referring to—a sickening sense of dread that seemed to emanate from his arm, cloaking him in grief.

“So I stopped. I don’t think Hermione was really keen on it, anyway. She didn’t like going through my memories, and she didn’t like me trying to get rid of my scar, either.”

“What does she think of you helping me?”

“She hasn’t said much.” Harry smiled at Winky as she scampered towards them.

“Is there anything else we can be getting you, Harry Potter, sir?” she squeaked.

“No, no, this was great,” Harry said. “You really didn’t have to.” He passed her the platter; upon seeing that it was empty, she looked delighted.

Kreacher took away the cups of tea. “Would you like some sweets to take back with you, Master Harry? Master Draco?”

“No, thank you,” Harry said. “We’ll get out of your way.”

Draco thought they might never escape. Kreacher insisted that Harry visit again soon and that he bring Draco with him; Winky gave Harry another hug, gripping his waist until he gently pried her off. Finally, they slipped out, Harry closing the door behind them. Draco was both very full and very happy—a rush of excitement passed through him at the thought that Harry had once again invited him into his life. They walked up to the entrance hall in silence. At the foot of the marble staircase, Harry turned towards Draco. He had a lopsided smile on his face.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he said. He stuck his hands into his pockets.

Draco shrugged, forcing his face into a neutral expression that he prayed would not reveal the way his pulse picked up when Harry spoke in that quiet, low voice. “You fed me. So…thank you.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah. It’s nice, though, spending time together outside the forest.”

“Yeah.” Draco berated himself—surely he could come up with something cleverer to say. But his brain didn’t seem to work very well when Harry stood before him in the bright light of the entrance hall, shifting his weight onto one foot, and then the other. Very much aware of the silence stretching between them, Draco, said, “We should go. Before Filch finds us.”

“Yeah. But first, I’m going to hug you. Alright?” Harry asked. He had already taken his hands out of his pockets. Draco nodded, and then Harry stepped forward and pulled him into a tight embrace. He had expected to feel an automatic urge to tense, to stiffen, but instead he found himself wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. He was acutely aware of everywhere they touched. It occurred to him, distantly, that anybody could catch them, that there were no doubt teachers wandering the corridors, looking for students out of bed, to say nothing of Filch. But…what did it matter? What did it matter, he thought, when Harry was willingly drawing their bodies together, their cheeks touching, the feel of his jumper so familiar and reassuring? Harry gave him one last squeeze before pulling away. His cheeks were pink.

“Let’s meet again tomorrow,” Harry said. He gestured towards Draco’s arm. “We should try to finish before it snows.”

“Right. Of course. Well…goodnight.” Draco did not want to head down to the dungeons, not really; he would have been happy to stand there all night in the entrance hall, learning more about Harry and his childhood and his relationship with his godfather and his friendship with Dobby. But it was late, and he was tired, and he didn’t want to push his luck.

“G’night.” Harry gave him one last smile before heading up the staircase.

***

Draco sat down on his bed, the little note clutched in his hand. He had read it over a dozen times already, but he hoped that some hidden meaning or indication of how he should respond might appear. It was late—he would most definitely miss lunch. Soon, Pansy and Blaise would come looking for him. And he would tell them…what? What was there to say? How could they possibly understand, when their own parents—although eccentric, although unusual, although mind-numbingly meddlesome—generally enjoyed normal relationships with their children? Draco looked down at the note once again, taking in each word as he scrambled to make a decision.

_Come to Hogsmeade at four. We’ll Apparate to the Ministry. They have a grate ready for us. I love you._

Draco had never been to Azkaban before. He knew that visitors were heavily regulated; the prison could only be accessed by Floo through authorized grates at the Ministry, and appointments had to be made weeks in advance. Everything about his mother’s plan terrified him. He hadn’t seen her in months. What would they talk about? Surely, his mother would scold him for failing to write. He couldn’t bear a row. He also had no interest in visiting the Ministry. Between his own hearings and his parents’, he had become too acquainted with the atrium, the lifts, the courtrooms. And then, of course, there was Azkaban itself—haunted by Dementors and filled with Death Eaters, there was nowhere he would have rather less visited. If, somehow, he made it through all of that without falling apart, there was then the question of what he would say to his father. Would they discuss his friends? His classes? Their plans for the summer holidays? All while his father sat in a cell and Dementors supervised the visit?

No. He couldn’t go. There was no point in it. He had nothing to say to his mother. Nothing at all. And he had even less to say to his father. He knew his mother well enough to know that she would expect him to come to the Manor for dinner, and perhaps stay the night, never mind that he had class tomorrow. And she would probably convince him, too, because he was rarely able to refuse her.

But maybe he _could_ go, just for a while. An hour, at most. He would go for an hour, see his father, engage in the usual trite conversation, and then leave. He would refuse to stay a moment longer. And then maybe he would find Harry, and they could work on his Mark together, or maybe they could just talk. And if Harry wasn’t around, there was still Pansy, and Blaise, and they would try to understand, because annoying though they were, they did _try_ , he knew that, they had always tried to support him, to understand him, to make sense of him. They would encourage him to go. They would want him to go. Their faces had been suspicious the moment his mother’s owl swooped down and dropped the letter into his lap. It was almost as though the stupid bird had waited until he was with his friends, knowing that they would pester him, that they would urge him to respond…

Draco jumped to his feet. He was panicking. His thoughts raced around his mind, unencumbered by his frantic attempts to slow them. He would go with his mother, just for a bit. No. He wouldn’t. If he went once, she would demand that he go again. He would never hear the end of it. But if he didn’t join her, then she would have to go alone. Chest tightening, Draco reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wand. With a sharp tap, he set the note aflame. He held the corner and watched it curl, blackening, until the flames danced too close to his fingers and he dropped it to the floor. He had expected to feel better, but he didn’t. Because even though the parchment had been reduced to a little handful of soot, the words still gripped him. He could lock away his mother’s letters, he could refuse to read them, he could light them on fire, but that didn’t change the fact that she would be arriving in Hogsmeade in just a few hours. In that moment, he felt as though he would go mad waiting for the time to pass.

How could things have shifted so quickly? Only last night he had gone to bed grateful that Blaise wasn’t awake to see the grin on his face. Nestled deep under the blankets, he had tried to calm himself down. It was just a _hug._ It meant nothing. Friends hugged each other all the time. And Harry, he had come to realize, was a very physical person. He knew all this, but it didn’t stop him from replaying in his mind their conversation in the kitchens and then their hug at the bottom of the stairs. How had he been so happy just hours ago, when now he was so distraught that he felt ill? There was nothing worse, he thought, than the unbearable weight of anxiety that filled him like lead.

He wasn’t surprised when a deafening roar filled his ears. Uncomfortably aware of his pulse as it galloped away, Draco only just managed to stumble back to his bed. Leaning over the sheets, he groaned as an awful vision burst before him: the Dark Lord’s wand against his arm, ripping through his skin, his flesh curdling as thick plumes of steam escaped the wound. He was screaming, and it _hurt_ , it hurt worse than he could have ever imagined, why had his father not warned him how badly it would _hurt?_ His aunt was laughing in the background, and in his agony he desperately wished she would stop. He swayed, and although he didn’t fall, it was a close thing. And the _pain_ , it just went on and on and on, and he didn’t want to watch as his skin stitched back together in the form of the hideous black Mark, but he couldn’t look away…

Draco pressed his face into his hands as the room shifted back into focus. He retched, but nothing came out. His throat burned. His Mark ached. Grateful that Blaise and Pansy had still not come to check on him, he pulled himself onto the bed. The sheets were cool against his cheek. He was very tired. He curled up and drifted in and out of consciousness, tracking his heart as it finally slowed. The room grew darker. At one point, he heard the door open. Whispering. More whispering. And then the door closed. Silence. Blissful silence. Eventually, he fell asleep. And he dreamt of his mother, and the time they had traveled to Lisbon together, and the way her pale eyes danced when she smiled at him.

***

As Draco entered the clearing, he had a fairly good idea which memory they were about to witness. He just knew. Every little nerve in his body was sharp, sharp, sharp, prickling against his flesh. There had been plenty to be anxious about over the years, but he had always managed to tuck it away. To compartmentalize. To avoid. And now it seemed that everything was coming to the fore. It had been so much easier before, when he had alternated between anger and that uncanny numbness that permeated him.

Harry seemed nearly as nervous as he felt. Somehow, they both knew what was about to happen. They were silent as Draco crawled onto the blue and bronze blanket.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

Harry’s fingers were warm against his cold skin. The nights had grown cold. Soon, they would need to wear thicker cloaks. Or perhaps they would find somewhere indoors to meet. Or maybe Draco’s Mark would be gone by that time. And then what would they do? Would they stop seeing each other? Would they still be friends? Would Harry move on as though they hadn’t come to know each other at all?

“Draco?”

He jumped when he realized that Harry was speaking to him. Embarrassed, he grimaced. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Silence. He expected Harry to question him, and he urged him not to. Finally, he felt the holly wand press against his arm. “I’m starting now. Alright?”

“Sure.” His voice had gone all strange and raspy. Draco cleared his throat and said again, “Sure.”

Harry hesitated. Neither of them wanted to do this. But it needed to be done.

“Three…two…one…”

_He faltered in the middle of his bedroom, trying to decide whether he should crawl into bed or attempt to take a shower. His legs decided for him—his knees buckled. He only just made it to the bed, scrambling at the blankets as he heaved himself up. He couldn’t endure it. He couldn’t. Everything they had thrown at him, he had endured. Everything. But not this. That awful, sour smell clung to him like death. The tremors in his limbs seemed to come from deep inside of him, some broken little part that would never be fixed. His soul was maimed. Disfigured. Clumsily, he pulled the blankets above his head. He tried to cry—tried to force himself, tried to make the tears come—but he couldn’t. He could do nothing but shake. And then there were noises from downstairs: people laughing, the tinkling of cutlery on plates, a door opening and closing. Dinner went on as though nothing had happened. The Dark Lord was the happiest he had been in ages. Everyone was happy. And Macnair would be back in the dining room, pretending that nothing had happened, as though Draco’s blood, his flesh, hadn’t just been smeared across his hands…_

Harry didn’t resist when Draco ripped his arm away. It burned as sharply as it had when he had first been branded. He sat up. The forest spun. His mouth tasted of metal, of salt—he was crying, he realized. Great sobs that he had somehow only noticed now.

“It was him,” Draco said, clutching his arm against his chest. “It was Macnair, but I don’t understand, I can still see, I can still _remember._ ”

“I’m going to hug you. Alright?”

Draco nodded blindly, trying to wipe the tears from his eyes but unable to keep up with the torrent. And then Harry was there, holding him to his chest, muttering his name over and over.

“Did you not erase it?” Draco whimpered. “Why can I still remember? Everything—I can remember _everything_ …”

“The memory, it wasn’t…” Harry let out a sharp exhale. “It wasn’t…that. Not exactly. You were in your bedroom, at the Manor…it must have just happened…”

Draco let out another sob and gripped Harry’s jumper.

“Oh, Draco.” Harry sounded as though he might cry, too. “Draco, Draco, Draco.”

“I just knew it was going to be something to do with Macnair,” Draco said. “I knew. I could feel it. All day, I’ve felt awful—my anxiety, it’s been so bad, I can’t even think straight—”

“What?” Harry gently pulled away, trying to look at his face. “What do you mean? Why are you anxious? I thought—I thought last night, you seemed okay.”

“I _was_ ,” he said plaintively.

“Is it—is it something I did? Something I said?”

“No.” Draco shook his head vehemently. “You’re the only thing keeping me _sane._ ” He should have been horrified at himself for being so forward, but he couldn’t be bothered. Not when he was crying so hard that his lungs hurt.

Harry froze, and he thought that on top of everything else he might have frightened him away, but then he pulled Draco to his chest again. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

Crying, Draco realized, was cathartic. He had never cried over what had happened with Macnair. Not really. Instead, he had gathered all of the harrowing memories and buried them away. It had been the only way to survive. Severus had asked, of course—and his mother, once, in a very roundabout way that left both of them discomfited. But he had revealed nothing. It was easier to convince himself that he was fine. And that became a habit of his. But now, every sob that spilled out of him seemed to drag along with it another inch of his pain. And Harry was there to catch it all, his arms fiercely tight around Draco as he muttered into his hair. It had been years since he had cried to anyone like this. And it felt good. It was as though he had released a pressure valve—soon he was crying not only because of Macnair, but because of his parents, and his decision to take the Mark, and his orders to kill Dumbledore, and that awful encounter in the bathroom with Harry, and the moment he learned that Severus was dead, and every other little misery that had chipped away at him over the years.

Slowly, very slowly, the flow of tears ebbed. Draco managed to take in one deep breath, and then another. His heart, though still racing, stopped bruising his chest. It occurred to him that he was making a mess of Harry’s jumper, and that he probably looked awful—as he recalled it, he was not a very attractive crier. He took in a gulp of cold air, trying to steady himself.

“I-I’m sorry,” he rasped. He made to reach for his wand, but Harry pulled him somehow closer.

“Don’t be.”

“Your…your jumper…I’m sorry, it’s disgusting…”

“Nothing about you could ever be disgusting.”

Draco scoffed, but it turned into a hiccup. He didn’t feel the usual giddiness that sparked through him whenever Harry used that low, no-nonsense voice—he was too drained, he thought, too spent from crying—but he felt safe. And that was perhaps even better.

“I’d do anything to take it away,” Harry said. “I’d have done anything to stop it.”

And Draco knew, without a doubt, that he meant it.

“How’s your Mark?” Harry asked.

Draco braced himself and brought up his arm. For a moment, his heart stopped—he thought the Mark might have finally vanished. But no. If he squinted, he could just make out the palest of smudges.

“Can I see?” Harry asked. Draco held up his arm and Harry smiled. “Almost gone. Just one more time, I bet. One more memory and it’ll be gone.”

Draco forced himself to smile back. Their time together was coming to an end. And he didn’t know how to feel about it. Well, no, that wasn’t true. Looking up at Harry’s big green eyes, he knew that he wasn’t happy. It stung, too, that Harry seemed pleased—maybe it didn’t bother him. Maybe he was glad to be rid of Draco, to be able to spend his nights doing something else. And that broke his heart. Just a bit.

***

Flitwick had them working on charms to alter texts. Tucked away in the back of the classroom, Draco and Pansy were pouring over her copy of _Witch Weekly_. She still hadn’t found robes for Christmas, and she was beginning to panic. Draco did his best to concentrate and to appear interested, but it was difficult when he still felt so odd. Something had shifted in him since his last meeting with Harry, although he couldn’t quite say what.

“What about this one?” Pansy asked, tapping on a glossy photo.

Draco hummed, pulling the magazine closer. The satin robes hugged the model’s curves; she smiled at them coyly. “No. You wore emerald last year.” At that, the model’s face fell into a pout.

“You have such a good memory,” Pansy grumbled, flipping the page. “Why is everything so _colourful_ this year? I want something understated.”

“Everyone’s happy, I guess,” Draco said. “With Voldemort gone, you know…”

“I guess.” On the next page, a group of women in fuchsia robes clung to each other, laughing. “My parents are really on me this year…they want me to make a good impression, you know. Since I embarrassed them…at the Battle, when I said…”

“Your parents _really_ need to let that go,” he sighed. “It’s not as though you joined the Death Eaters. You panicked.”

“I think they’re using it to get on my case about everything else.” She slumped forward onto the desk. “They’re angry because I’m only taking four N.E.W.T.s. They want me to go to London next year—to meet people, to network, all that rubbish—and I don’t want to. And now, they’ve asked me to go to this Christmas dinner with some idiot, I forget his name…his father is friends with mine. And I’ve refused.”

Draco reached out and placed his hand on Pansy’s arm. “Go away for a bit. Not to London. Further. Blaise wants to travel to North America.”

“Oh, yes, what a grand idea,” she said moodily. “We’ll strangle each other before we even make it there.”

“What do you want to do, then? After Hogwarts?”

“I don’t know.” Pansy turned the magazine towards him and pointed at a pale woman in black, frilly robes.

He made a face. “Really?”

“Maybe not.” At the other end of the class there came a great burst of laughter. Draco looked up, annoyed, and watched as Weasley pushed Harry aside playfully. And that felt…strange. He had the peculiar thought that _he_ should be the one sitting next to Harry, making him laugh.

“Draco,” Pansy said warningly. He realized then that he was shooting red sparks from the tip of his wand. Hastily, he set it down. Pansy eyed him for a moment, and then said, “You really have it bad for him, don’t you?”

He felt warm around his ears as he turned back to the magazine. “What about this one, then?” he asked, gesturing towards a set of crimson robes.

“Gryffindor colours?” she sneered. “Really? I’ll leave that to you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sniffed.

“If you say so.” She traced her finger along the red robes as they fluttered on the page. “They aren’t bad, though. I do like the cut.”

“They’re nice.”

“And what about you, then?” Pansy asked.

“What about me?”

“What are you wearing to the _dinner_ , Draco? My God, you’re obsessed. You can’t think of anything else.”

“I am not!” Draco turned away from Harry, in whose direction he had _not_ been staring. “And I’m not going.”

“What do you mean, you’re not going?” she demanded. “Of course you’re going. Everyone’s going.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Oh, that will be very nice for your mother, won’t it?” Pansy said waspishly. “The first big dinner since—since the Battle, since the end of things—and she has to go alone.”

“She has plenty of friends to go with.”

“What, then? Are you staying at Hogwarts for Christmas?” she asked, frowning at him.

“I might.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and heaved a great, exasperated sigh. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Stay here with me. You don’t want to go to that stupid dinner, anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Blaise’s mother is hosting. Can you imagine how rude it would be if we didn’t go?”

“Have it your way, then,” he said, sitting back in his chair. He couldn’t help but gaze over at Harry, who was tapping his wand smartly against his textbook.

“And what about me?” Pansy said suddenly. “I need you there. We’ve _always_ sat together, Draco. Always.”

He did feel a bit of guilt at that. “I know. And I’m sorry.”

“We’re supposed to gossip all night. And then we’re supposed to dance to the terrible music they put on. And then we’re supposed to steal a bottle of wine and hide in Blaise’s bathroom and drink until someone finds us.”

“I know.” Draco meant to apologize again, but he caught sight of Flitwick coming towards them. He picked up his wand and tapped it against the sheet of parchment in front of him. “ _Illegibilus!_ ” At once, the letters swapped places.

“Oh, very good, Mr. Malfoy!” Flitwick squeaked, clapping his hands. “And you, Ms. Parkinson?”

“Ah…right.” She had already hidden the magazine beneath her textbook. She touched the tip of her wand to the parchment and said, “ _Illegibilus!”_ The text became unreadable.

“Good! Very good!” he said happily, moving on.

“Alright,” Pansy said, pulling back out her magazine. “Skip the dinner. Fine. I’ll manage on my own. But you’re coming to the party next weekend, and that’s final.”

“Party? What party?”

“You and Blaise!” she cried, staring at him as though he had just committed a terrible offense. “You’ve both gone mad this year! He’s always mooning after Whitby, and you’re hardly any better, staring at—”

“ _Shut it,_ ” Draco hissed. He glanced over at Harry, who was in deep conversation with Granger. Turning back to Pansy, he scowled. “Do you have to be so loud?”

“Anyway,” she said, “it’s Christmas party, at the Three Broomsticks. Everyone’s going.”

“Really?” he sneered. “A Christmas party?”

“Potter will be there,” Pansy said. She smirked at him victoriously, as though the case was closed. “It was his idea, apparently. His and Granger’s.”

“Why would I want to spend more time with these people than I already do?” Draco asked, looking around the room.

“It’s not only eighth years,” she said. “I think seventh years are invited, too.”

“Oh, now you’ve really convinced me,” he said drily.

“Draco!” she snapped. “Just come! Why does everything have to be an argument with you?”

“Because you’re always trying to force me to do things I don’t want to do!”

“Nobody’s forcing you!” she said shrilly.

Several people had turned to look at them. In a low voice, Draco said, “Fine. I’ll go to this bloody party. Happy?”

Either she hadn’t noticed his irritation, or she didn’t care. Beaming, Pansy returned to her magazine, kicking his foot under the table when he craned his neck to look at Harry again.

***

Draco slipped past the oak tree and into the clearing. The air was so cold that it bit his cheeks. He was nervous—he didn’t want to see more memories about Macnair. He didn’t know if he could stand it. Emotionally, he was wobbling near the edge of a dangerous precipice, and he wasn’t sure where the plummet might lead. He had been waiting for this night all week; if Harry was right, he might finally be rid of his Mark. But now that it was here, he wasn’t sure how to feel. His Mark bothered him less often these days. He could go hours without noticing it. But there were still the flashbacks, the tremors in his hands, the panic. He hoped against hope that removing his Mark would put all of that to rest.

Sitting cross-legged on the grass was Harry, and next to him was a green blanket with a silver pillow resting on top. Draco stopped short. Even though he was nervous, he couldn’t help but smile. And something tugged at his heart when Harry smiled back.

“Slytherin colours,” he said as he eased onto the blanket.

Harry was beaming. “I figured I should, since this is probably the last time. I really think we’re getting rid of your Mark tonight.”

“Yeah?” Draco settled onto the pillow, urging himself to relax. The last time. Those words were not as encouraging as they might have been months ago.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“We’ve been doing this for ages, and you still ask me,” Draco muttered, slipping his arm into Harry’s lap.

“Of course.” He rolled back Draco’s sleeve, pulling it away from his Mark so as not to graze the sensitive skin. “How does it feel?”

“Not bad. The ache comes and goes.”

“And your flashbacks?”

“Er…alright.” The vivid memory of being Marked jumped before him, but he forced it away, focusing instead on Harry’s face, his worried eyes.

Harry brushed his palm across Draco’s arm. The Mark was barely visible. Tonight was the night, he knew. And that sent a little flurry of panic racing through him.

“Ready?” Harry asked, reaching back for his wand.

“Ready.”

They exchanged nervous smiles, and then Harry dug the tip of his wand into Draco’s skin. “Three…two…one…”

_“There’s something there,” his father whispered, “it could be the scar, stretched tight…Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?”_

_He pressed his hands against his trousers to stop them from trembling. It was Potter. Of course it was. And there were Weasley and Granger, too. How could they have been so stupid to get caught? Fear twisted into anger as he cursed them. His father stepped aside, and he made a show of leaning closer, pretending to study Potter’s face. His father was most definitely right—a Stinging Jinx had distorted Potter’s features. But he still recognized those round glasses, the untidy hair, the lightning bolt scar._

_“I don’t know,” he said. He went to stand by his mother, who was scowling at him. He averted his eyes from hers and instead stared at the floor._

_“We had better be certain, Lucius,” she said. “Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord. They say this is his,” she held up a wand, “but it does not resemble Ollivander’s description…If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing…remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?”_

_Draco winced. He remembered all too clearly. And what might the Dark Lord do with_ him _if he learned that Draco was lying?_

_“What about the Mudblood, then?” Greyback asked. He shoved Potter to the side and dragged Granger under the chandelier, squinting at her._

_“Wait,” his mother said. “Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin’s with Potter! I saw her picture in the_ Prophet! _Look, Draco, isn’t it the Granger girl?”_

_No, no, no. Why hadn’t Granger disfigured herself, too? He could feel his mother’s eyes on him. “I…maybe…yeah.”_

_“But then, that’s the Weasley boy!” his father shouted. “It’s them, Potter’s friends—Draco, look at him, isn’t it Arthur Weasley’s son, what’s his name—?”_

_This was wrong. This was all wrong. He couldn’t bear to look as Weasley edged away from his father, terrified. “Yeah. It could be.”_

_And then the door banged open, and his aunt Bellatrix was there, and they began to argue…and Draco could feel the sweat cascading down his face…no, no,_ no _…why had they allowed themselves to be caught? At any moment, someone would summon the Dark Lord, and he would…he would kill…_

Draco ripped himself out of the memory and shoved Harry’s hand away. White spots burst before his eyes as he pushed himself to the edge of the blanket, retching. Nothing came. His head felt as though it was in a vice.

“Draco!” Harry was next to him, rubbing his back. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Can’t,” he gasped. “Can’t.”

“Can’t what? Does it hurt? Draco, does your Mark hurt?”

“Can’t forget it. I just can’t.”

“What?”

Draco forced himself to look up at Harry’s pale, bewildered, beautiful face. His eyes were wide with fright.

“I can’t forget. Not that one. I can’t forget that memory.”

“But—but _why_?”

“Because.” Everything in his head was jumbled up, mixed together like a potion that refused to come together into a seamless solution. “Because that’s one of the only—the _only_ —things I don’t regret.”

“Draco,” Harry sighed. “You’ve done loads of things you don’t need to regret.”

He settled onto his stomach, pressing his forehead against his hands. The smell of the earth soothed him. It was grounding, reassuring, a reminder that there was an immovable weight beneath him that would never falter.

“Can I touch you?” Harry asked. He nodded. Instantly, Harry’s hand was on his back, gently trailing up and down. After a moment, Harry said, “I appreciate what you did. More than you’ll ever know.”

“You know what’s sad?” Draco said. His throat was still raw, but he felt the urgent need to say this. “What we just saw—at the Manor—that’s one of the few things I did that wasn’t absolutely terrible. And I didn’t even _do_ anything. I should have lied. I should have said it definitely wasn’t you. But I just sort of…faffed.”

“Really? You bought us time. You confused them. They didn’t know what to think.”

“My mother _knew_ ,” Draco said. “She recognized Granger. She knew that I knew.”

“And? What does it matter?” Harry said fiercely. “You gave us the time we needed.”

“I could have done _more_ ,” he insisted.

“You think I couldn’t have done more? You think I couldn’t have—I don’t know—not gone to the Ministry like an _idiot_ when Voldemort tricked me? I could have checked with the Order, could have waited to see if it was a trap. And Cedric—I could have tried to stop it, they killed him like he was _nothing_ , I didn’t even react. And at the Battle—God, the Battle, I should have gone to see Voldemort earlier. I should have figured it out sooner. But I didn’t. And so Fred died, and Tonks, and Lupin, and Colin…”

“You can’t be serious.” Even though his arm throbbed in agony, Draco pushed himself up. The trees around them spun. Finally, he focused in on Harry’s face, and his heart sunk. He had never seen him so distraught. Although it was dark, Draco could see how his cheeks had reddened, how his bottom lip quivered. “Harry. Please. Please don’t cry. After everything you’ve done—think of it, think of _everything_ you’ve done, how many people you _have_ saved—you can’t blame yourself.”

Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, sniffing wetly.

“Oh, please don’t cry,” Draco said. His own chest tightened in empathy. “If you cry, I’ll cry, and I look awful when I cry.”

“No, you don’t,” Harry mumbled, still rubbing at his eyes.

“All these people…they were your friends. You think they’d want you to feel guilty? They _chose_ to fight. That was their choice. Whatever happened to them, that’s Voldemort’s fault. Not yours. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“You can’t either, then.”

“What?” he asked, confused.

“If I can’t blame myself, then you can’t, either,” Harry said, his voice rough.

“That’s completely different,” he said. “I made awful, awful choices.”

Harry sighed. “Why can’t you see yourself the way I see you?”

Draco blanched. He had no answer to that. And, just as his pulse had started to ease, it picked up again, his blood racing through his veins. He felt very warm. He ducked his head, certain that his embarrassment was painted all over his face.

“Well…now what?” Harry asked. “We’re so close to erasing your Mark…I know we are. Do we just try again?”

“I guess.” Draco shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get another memory.”

“Let’s meet tomorrow, then.”

“No. Let’s do it now. Please? One more time. As you said, we’re so close.”

“Draco…”

“I’m okay. We’ve done this before, remember? Two memories in one night. And it was fine.”

“It wasn’t fine,” Harry argued. “You were really bothered, I remember, you—”

“Please?” Draco pleaded. “Please. I just want it gone.” A little voice in the back of his head reminded him that once his Mark was gone, his meetings with Harry were over. But he pushed it away, focusing instead on the awful burn in his arm.

“Lay back down, then.”

Relieved, Draco settled onto the blanket. He offered Harry his arm. There was an expectant silence between them as Harry placed his wand against what little remained of the Mark.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

“Three…two…one…”

 _The chandelier made a terrible crunching sound as it crashed to the floor. Shards of crystal burst into Draco’s face; he stumbled back, covering his eyes. As he crumpled to the ground, he saw Potter racing towards him. He held out the three wands…and when Potter reached out for them, he practically forced them into his hand…he urged Potter to_ run, _to escape, and then his mother was dragging him away…_

“NO.” Draco sat up. He was neither here nor there—the trees mixed in with the paneled walls of the drawing room—the nighttime sounds around them bled into the echoes of his aunt’s shrieks, Greyback’s howling—Harry’s hand on his arm slipped against his mother’s as she pulled him away—

“Draco,” Harry said softly. “Draco. I’m here. It’s alright.”

“ _Why?_ ” he moaned. His Mark burned as though it had just been branded into him. “Why did it have to be the same—the same one—I don’t understand—”

“Take a deep breath,” Harry said. “Can I hug you?”

Draco nodded, and at once he felt Harry’s arms around him.

“Breathe,” he was saying. “Breathe…breathe…it’s alright…”

“Everything hurts,” he said, and it was true. The very tips of his fingernails throbbed.

“I know. I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not forgetting that memory,” he said hotly. “I’m not.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry whispered. His voice was like a balm. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Let’s go again,” he said, pushing away. “One more time.”

“Are you mad?” Harry seized his shoulders, glaring down at him. “We’re _not_ going again. You’ll lose your mind.”

“If we keep trying, another memory will show up. I’ve got loads of memories—loads—try to find something about Macnair, maybe, or Voldemort, or…”

“I don’t decide what to erase,” Harry said. “It just sort of…appears.”

Draco wanted to cry with frustration. “I don’t understand.”

“Remember when you stopped me from erasing the memory with Ollivander?” Harry said. “The next time we tried, that same memory came up. I think this is how it works.”

“No. It can’t be.”

“Let me ask Hermione.”

“I want this bloody thing gone,” he sobbed. “But I don’t want—that memory, I can’t forget it. You don’t understand.”

“Draco.” Harry shifted so that their faces were mere inches apart. “I understand. I do. And I won’t make you forget it.”

“Okay.” Embarrassed at his own hysteria, Draco glanced away. “Okay. Right.”

Harry brought his hand up. Draco had the wild thought that Harry was about to cup his face, but he hesitated before clasping his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Hermione. She might know what to do.”

“Okay.” Still frightened, the bittersweet memory gripping at the edges of his consciousness, Draco leaned into Harry’s touch. In this raw state of vulnerability, he couldn’t help the unbidden thought that leapt before him: he wanted Harry. He did. His stomach did all sorts of funny things as he allowed himself to take Harry in—the worried look on his face, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. The curl of hair tucked behind his ear. His long, dark eyelashes. The shadow of stubble across his jaw. He hadn’t felt anything like this in so long. Hadn’t _allowed_ himself to feel like this. There hadn’t been time, there hadn’t been space. But now the front of his trousers was uncomfortably tight, and he felt hot as he forced himself to swallow.

Harry was scrutinizing his face. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Draco cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Of course. You must be exhausted.” Harry squeezed his shoulder one last time before drawing away. He stretched his arms above his head, groaning. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Draco felt his face turning scarlet. Harry Potter, he thought, would be the death of him after all.

***

He could think of nothing but Harry. And he found that he didn’t mind. He brought himself off twice in the shower and that name echoed in his head. _Harry, Harry, Harry._ His mother sent him an angry letter and he skimmed through it, unbothered. Even though he was distracted, he managed to finish his homework on time. In class, Slughorn praised his Ageing Potion. Pansy checked his temperature several times. She was convinced that he was ill. But he wasn’t. He was happy.

***

The sickly-sweet smell of Butterbeer hit him as they pushed through the door. Loud music was playing from a wireless somewhere. There was barely any room to squeeze through, but somehow they managed, claiming a table in a far corner. It was too hot. Too noisy. Too busy. Every eighth- and seventh-year student, it seemed, was packed into the Three Broomsticks: over in a far corner were Harry and his friends; by the bar he spotted Luna Lovegood dressed in gauzy green robes, talking with Ginny Weasley and Longbottom; scattered around the room were Thomas and Finnigan…Patil…Harper…Abbott…his head started to hurt.

“Should I get us drinks?” Blaise asked, nearly shouting to be heard.

“Might as well.”

Blaise made to push past him, but Pansy snatched at his wrist.

“I don’t want you getting drunk!” she cried. “We need to mingle.”

“I mingle with this lot _every_ day, Pansy,” Blaise snapped.

“Well, I’m going to go socialize. You two can drink together and pout.”

“You’d better fix your hair,” he advised her. “Michael Corner’s just walked in.”

“Blaise!” she shrieked, cheeks turning red. “If you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to tell Whitby about that time you called McGonagall ‘mum’ in third year.”

Blaise made a face at her and then pushed into the throng of people. Pansy threw a furious look at him before turning to Draco. Anxiously, she said, “Is my hair alright? Should I go fix it?”

“You’re fine,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Come on, then. I know what will cheer you up.” And before Draco could stop her, she was dragging him across the pub towards Harry and his friends. Granger noticed them first, pausing as she brought her drink halfway to her mouth.

“Oh, hi!” she said. “How are you, Pansy? Draco?”

“Alright!” Pansy said in a horribly cheerful tone. “And how about you?”

Harry was grinning at him. There was colour in his cheeks—perhaps from the drink in his hand—and he was leaning against the wall as though none of this phased him at all.

“Good!” Granger chirped. “Ron was just telling us about his family’s plans for Christmas.” When Weasley did nothing but stare at them, Granger elbowed his side. “Weren’t you, Ron?”

“Er…yeah.” He took a long swig of firewhisky, as though he hoped they would disappear before he finished.

“They’re going to France,” Granger continued.

“Oh, are you really?” Pansy lit up at that. Draco knew what she was about to say before it spilled out: “Paris is so beautiful! One of my favourite cities!”

“Oh, is it? That’s exciting!” Granger said. “They won’t be staying in Paris, but I’m sure they’ll visit. Won’t you, Ron?”

“Are you not going?” Pansy asked, surprised. “But you have to! It’s so romantic, it’s wonderful for couples.”

Granger gave a shy little smile. “I’ll be staying with my parents for Christmas. We didn’t get to spend the holidays together last year.”

“Won’t that be nice!” Turning to Draco, Pansy said, “Won’t that be nice, Draco? It’s so important to spend the holidays with your parents, I think.”

“Sure.” At that moment, Blaise appeared with their drinks. Draco took a firewhisky. He sipped on it slowly, aware that Harry was watching him.

“Tough luck for the Cannons, Weasley,” Blaise drawled. “Reckon they have a chance against the Magpies?”

Weasley looked very much as though he didn’t want to answer. Granger prodded him again. He glanced over at Harry before heaving a sigh and saying, “Maybe. Depends if Gudgeon plays or not.”

“He’s got an injury, hasn’t he?” Blaise asked.

“Yeah.” Weasley took a sip of his drink, and then added, “Let’s hope he stays injured.”

Before he could stop himself, Draco laughed. The sound startled him just as much as it seemed to surprise everyone else—they turned to gape at him. Harry was chuckling. He was saved from having to explain himself when the crowd shifted and Luna Lovegood appeared.

“Hello, everyone,” she said dreamily. Her robes were shimmering.

Draco felt rather awkward in her presence. She had, after all, been held captive in his cellar. As though she could read his mind, Luna turned to him, smiling gently.

“Don’t worry, Draco,” she said. “You don’t have to feel uncomfortable. I know you did your best.”

He would have happily been sucked into the floor if it meant he didn’t have to have this conversation, especially in front of Harry and his friends. “Er. Thanks.”

“You might be interested in the latest issue of the _Quibbler_ ,” she continued, looking up at him with those protuberant eyes. “There’s an article on insomnia, and whether moon frogs are to blame.”

“Is that right?” he muttered.

“Draco hardly ever slept at the Manor,” Lovegood told the group. “I heard him all the time, pacing. Talking to himself. It was a bit sad, really.”

The silence that fell over them could not have been tenser. Finally, Blaise said, “What’s a moon frog?”

“Oh!” Luna dug around in the purple satchel slung over her shoulder. “Here, let me find you a copy, you can read for yourself…moon frogs, they’re funny little critters, though we don’t know much about them…”

The noise in the pub had become deafening. Draco suddenly felt ill. He tried to listen to Luna—and when that didn’t work, he told himself to concentrate on Blaise, who was doing a very good job of keeping a straight face—and when his vision swam he urged himself to focus on the cool bottle in his hand, but it was too late, he could feel his knees buckling—and there was Voldemort, announcing that Harry was dead, that it was over, that he had won—and there was Hagrid, holding Harry in his arms, and Draco felt the last little kernel of hope wither away in his chest, and all around him people were gasping, crying, screaming—

His firewhisky clattered to the floor.

“Draco! Draco! No, give him a minute, he’s done this before.”

“What’s happened to him? Did he drink too much?”

“He can’t have! We only just got here!”

“ _Relax,_ Pansy.”

“Draco? I’m right here.”

At the sound of Harry’s voice, Draco groaned. It was still very loud in the pub, and he took comfort in that; perhaps no one had noticed his fall. He blinked several times, and then Harry’s face swam before him. It was odd, he thought to himself, seeing Harry’s features so clearly. In the forest, he had to squint to make him out.

“What should we do?”

Draco looked over and saw that Weasley was crouched down next to Harry, frowning. That was strange, he decided. And Granger was on his other side, face full of concern. That, perhaps, was even stranger.

“Let him be, give him space.” Pansy’s voice came from somewhere above him.

“Should we try to bring him back to Hogwarts?” Weasley asked Harry, ignoring Pansy.

“No, don’t move him just yet.” Luna Lovegood was now kneeling next to him. She hummed to herself as she leaned forward to study his face. “Oh, that’s why. You can see it in his eyes.”

“Not now, Luna,” Harry snapped.

Granger grimaced and, as though it pained her to do so, she said, “No. Let her speak.”

“Well, if you look in his eyes, you can see all the memories.”

“The memories?” Pansy demanded. “What do you _mean_ , the memories?”

“All sorts of repressed memories.” Luna tilted her head as she considered him. “It must be very painful, living like that.”

Feeling like a specimen on display, Draco forced himself to sit up. “I’m fine,” he spat. “Just give me a second.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak when there came a burst of laughter from behind him.

“Has Malfoy _fainted_?”

That was Finnigan’s voice. Draco closed his eyes, vowing to never attend a party with Pansy ever again.

“Look, Malfoy’s fainted! Just like in Defence! Delicate thing, isn’t he?”

To Draco’s amazement, it was Weasley who turned around and barked, “Piss off, Seamus.”

Well, that was it, then. He must have finally gone mad. None of this could possibly be happening.

“Draco.” Harry reached out and touched his arm. “We’re going to get you up off the floor. Alright?”

Stunned into silence, he merely nodded.

“Here, Ron, help me.” The next thing Draco knew, Harry was supporting him on one side, Weasley on the other, and they lifted him to his feet. He wobbled, but Harry tucked his arm around him.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” Harry muttered. “You’re okay.”

“Let’s get him outside,” Pansy said. “He needs fresh air.”

“I’m _fine_.”

But nobody listened. They squeezed through the pub, Draco and Harry hobbling along, until finally they made it to the door. The moment he stepped outside, Draco’s head cleared. The frosty breeze was bracing.

“Let’s get you back to the castle,” Harry said. It was as though he was unaware of the others’ presence.

“I have to go find Ginny,” Luna said. She passed a copy of what must have been the _Quibbler_ to Blaise. “But you should let out those memories, Draco.”

By the time they left Hogsmeade, Draco was perfectly capable of managing on his own, but Harry insisted on helping him along. If any of the others found it odd, they said nothing. Instead, Pansy and Granger resumed their discussion of places to visit in France; Pansy roped Blaise into recounting the time they had gotten lost in the streets of Paris and he had cried.

“Are you alright?” Harry murmured.

“Fine. Sick of being helped back to the castle, but fine.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Weasley…” Even in the dark, Draco could clearly make out the shock of red hair ahead of them. “He was…he was alright.”

Harry wavered, and then said, “I know he can be…Well, he doesn’t warm up to people right away. But he’s trying.”

“I noticed,” Draco said stiffly. “Although I don’t know why.”

Draco could feel Harry’s shoulder move as he shrugged. “He knows I like you.”

Draco froze so abruptly that Harry lurched forward, nearly dragging him along. Mortified, Draco clung to Harry as they righted themselves. “Sorry…I tripped…”

“It’s okay.”

“You…” Draco swallowed thickly. The dizziness that had distracted him in the pub returned. “You like me.”

“Yeah.”

 _‘As a friend, you idiot,’_ Draco told himself. _‘Get a grip.’_

They limped down the path in silence, until Harry said, “Of course I like you. I thought you knew.”

“I…er…” His head spun. What did that mean? Were they both discussing the same thing?

“I’ve liked you,” Harry said, a note of amusement in his voice, “ever since the mouse.”

“What?” Surely he must have misheard. How hard had he fallen to the floor? Had he knocked his head?

“The mouse,” Harry repeated. “Remember? In Transfiguration? You let it go. And you didn’t turn it back into a toad.”

“I…” Somewhere in the haze of his memories, he did recall that day. It felt as though it had happened a decade ago.

“After that, I realized that you’d changed. And that it was wrong of me to try to pretend you were something you used to be before. Because the mouse wasn’t a toad anymore, was it? It was a mouse.”

Draco shook his head, bemused. “You’re off your rocker.”

Harry laughed. “Maybe. But you need to forgive yourself. Because I forgave you ages ago.”

Draco didn’t know how to respond, so they trudged along in silence. Harry only disentangled himself once they arrived at the entrance hall. The others stood away as Harry turned to him. He had a worried look on his face. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered. In the bright light of the entrance hall, he felt exposed, as though all of his thoughts were written plain across his face for anyone to read. “I’m just tired.”

“We’ll get him to bed.” Blaise smirked. “Come on, Draco, that’s enough excitement for one night.”

Harry looked as though he wanted to say something else, but Blaise had his hand on Draco’s shoulder and was leading him to the dungeon. They exchanged a smile and then Harry followed his friends across the hall and up the marble staircase. Draco felt a sharp pang as he watched them go.


	5. Diffraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen Barad on Quantum Physics and Bohr's philosophy-physics:
> 
> "Matter feels, converses, suffers, desires, yearns and remembers."

Draco was all nerves and tension as he traipsed across the grounds. It was dark; the moon was no more than a soft sliver in the sky. Muscle memory guided him as he wove between the trees, stepping over thick roots and avoiding stray branches. It was time to talk to Harry. The very thought sent a veritable tidal wave of anxiety bursting through him, but he needed to know. He thought he might go mad, analyzing every little thing Harry did in an attempt to understand how he felt. And what if tonight his mind offered up a different memory, and they were able to erase his Mark? What if this was the end of their meetings? He couldn’t bear the thought of parting without at least trying, as best he could, to convey his feelings.

Draco hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he stepped into the clearing and it blustered out of him. There, sitting by the emerald blanket, was Harry…and next to him was Granger. Draco stopped short. Her presence felt wrong. All wrong. This was supposed to be _their_ place, and now she was invading it.

Harry must have sensed his trepidation, because he jumped to his feet and strode over. “Hey,” he said, a soft smile on his face.

“Hi.” He continued to stare at Granger.

“Hermione came to help,” Harry said. He stood so close that Draco could smell the fresh, clean scent of laundry on him—and then he reached out for Draco’s hand. Wondering if he had just walked into some bizarre hallucination, Draco hesitated before taking Harry’s hand.

Calmly as possible, Draco managed to ask, “Help?”

“With your Mark. I told her what’s been happening.” When Draco frowned, he said quickly, “I didn’t tell her everything. I just said you have a memory you don’t want to erase.”

“Well.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “I guess that’s alright.”

“She only wants to help. I promise.”

It was difficult to ignore that little prickle of mistrust. But Harry’s open, eager face was reassuring. “Fine. But you could have warned me.”

“It was a last-minute thing. I know it’s a lot. But please trust me.”

Harry led him to the blanket. Granger, to his surprise, did not look at their linked hands; instead, she smiled sympathetically at Draco. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Go on, Draco, lay down,” Harry said. He withdrew his hand and placed it on Draco’s back, gently urging him forward. Feeling very foolish—and vulnerable—Draco crawled onto the blanket. He arranged himself as comfortably as he could while Harry took his spot next to Granger.

“So.” Granger had a book in her lap, and she began flipping through it. “Harry’s given me some of the details. There’s a memory you don’t want to erase. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Mmm.” She reached back and pulled out her wand. “Do you mind if I give us some light?”

“Go ahead,” he grunted.

“ _Lumos._ ” The light from her wand was so strong that Draco shielded his eyes, squinting.

“How has your Mark been?” Harry asked.

“Alright.”

“And you slept okay? After last night?”

He hadn’t. Not really. His dreams had been filled with terrible, haunting eyes and a brutal voice urging him to be quiet. But he didn’t want to reveal that to Granger. Instead, he merely shrugged. Harry frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but fortunately, Granger cut him off.

“I’m worried about these flashbacks,” she said. “The potion I gave you—the _Sana Mente_ —it should have sorted it, if it was just a matter of consolidation.”

“Maybe he needs to take it again?” Harry asked. “It’s been a while.”

“Maybe,” Granger said, but she sounded doubtful. “I’ll look into it. But anyway. This memory. Harry’s tried to erase it twice? And both times the same memory came up?”

“Right,” Draco answered. “Well…parts of the same memory.” When Granger frowned, a puzzled look on her face, he sighed. “It was at the Manor. You know. When the Snatchers found you, and…”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Right.”

“Well, anyway, the first time we tried, it started with my father asking me to check if it was Harry or not. And then we stopped. And then when we tried again, it picked up at the part where Harry took the wands out of my hand.”

“Ah. Okay.” She returned to her book. “But still the same memory, basically.”

“Basically.”

“This happened once before,” Harry said. “With another memory. We stopped, and then the next time we tried, the same one came up.”

“Why did you stop?” Granger asked.

Harry looked at Draco, who shook his head. “Er…I forget.”

Granger didn’t press him. Instead, she held her wand closer to the book, silently mouthing the words as she read.

“Draco,” Harry said, reaching out, “I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

He nodded. Very carefully, Harry took Draco’s arm and pulled it into his lap. He rolled up his sleeve with the ease of having done it a dozen times before. “Look how light it is,” he muttered to Granger.

“Mmm?” Distractedly, she glanced over, and then her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, wow.” She brought her wand to illuminate what little remained of his Mark. “You can hardly see it.”

“We’re nearly there,” Harry said. He rubbed his palm across the grey smudge. “I think if we could just erase one more memory, it would be gone.”

“And you don’t want to erase this one, Draco?” Granger asked, peering over at him.

“No.”

“Well…” She sighed, consulting her book again. “That might be a problem. I’m worried you’ll see the same memory over and over again until you erase it.”

“But why?” Draco asked, frustrated.

She shrugged. “I can’t say. It must be a core memory. These things aren’t very clear, unfortunately…”

“Should we try again?” Harry asked. “Maybe we’ll get something else.”

“You could try.” Granger closed her book and set it aside. “Who knows? It might change. Try thinking of something else, Draco, some other memory. That might bring something new to the forefront.”

“Do you want to try, Draco?” Harry asked him.

“Well…alright. I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

Draco tensed as Harry took out his wand. In the bright light of Granger’s _Lumos_ , he felt exposed. He hadn’t realized until now that the cover of the dark forest afforded him a sense of privacy. As though reading his mind, Harry murmured, “Hermione, could you turn off your light?”

“Oh, of course, sorry. _Nox._ ” They were shrouded in darkness. Instantly, he relaxed, even as he felt the familiar press of Harry’s wand against his arm.

“Are you ready, Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“Three…two…one…”

_He struggled to escape his mother’s grasp—she was pulling him away, but he ripped himself forward, trying to keep his eyes on Potter as he yanked the goblin out from under the chandelier. Go, go, go, Draco urged him. He watched as Potter took Dobby’s hand—Dobby, he thought wildly, what the hell was Dobby doing here—and then his aunt whipped her knife across the room as they began to vanish—_

This time, he didn’t have to push the holly wand away; Harry stopped of his own accord, speaking gently as Draco toppled out of the memory. His Mark burned angrily. Uncomfortable in Granger’s presence but unable to stop himself, Draco grabbed at his arm, gritting his teeth.

“Is he okay?” he heard Granger whisper.

Harry’s face hovered above him, but it melded with scenes from the memory they had just witnessed—the chandelier, splintered on the floor; his mother’s mouth, twisted in anger; the silver knife as it flew across the room. Draco closed his eyes tight. “Hurts.”

“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry murmured. “Can I touch you?” He nodded, and Harry’s hand was on his forehead, smoothing the hair away from his damp face.

“It was the same one,” Harry said. “The same memory.”

Granger made a disappointed sound.

“You’re okay, Draco. You’re okay.”

“Why does it have to be that one?” Draco groaned. “Why that memory? I don’t understand.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think there’s anything else we can do,” Granger said. “I’ll check the library again. But there are so few sources…and they take ages to translate.” She hesitated, and then called, “Er—Draco?”

He grunted.

“I can pass you this book, if you like. I might have missed something.”

Draco shook his head. “If you haven’t found it, it isn’t there.”

He realized that he had just complimented Granger, in a roundabout sort of way. She must have noticed, because her voice was kind when she said, “I’ll go to the library first thing tomorrow.”

“Does it still hurt, Draco?” Harry asked. “Your Mark?”

“Not really.” And it was true—the agony had settled into that deep, familiar ache. Instead, it seemed to be his very soul that hurt. He was so tired of this. A part of him was done. Just done.

“Your Mark…” Granger said tentatively. “You can hardly even see it.”

“She’s right, Draco,” Harry said. “Nobody would know it’s there.”

“But I’ll know,” he said dully.

“Draco.” Harry reached down and took one of his hands in his. Surprised, Draco couldn’t help but open his eyes. Harry had a solemn look on his face. “If you erase that memory…it doesn’t change what happened. I’ll still remember.”

He looked away stubbornly.

“You’ll still have done it, whether you remember or not.”

“I know that.”

“Harry’s right,” came Granger’s voice. “And if you erase that memory…I think the Mark will be gone. Consider it, at least.”

He couldn’t bear to discuss this any longer. “Fine.”

Harry gave him a crooked smile. “You won’t, will you? You won’t consider it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows.

Harry chuckled. He was rubbing his thumb against Draco’s knuckles. “You’re so stubborn.”

Behind him, Granger scoffed. “Oh, as if you’re any better.”

Draco smirked. A little voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Harry was holding his hand, stroking it, and that Granger was _right there_ , watching them. But Harry didn’t seem bothered. Not at all. He was completely at ease, as though it was just the two of them. Draco might have almost been comfortable, if it were not for the throbbing in his arm. Groaning, he shifted on the blanket.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, studying his face. “You look tired. We should get back.”

He wasn’t ready to go back. Before he could stop himself, he said, “But will we keep trying? With my Mark?”

“Of course we will,” Harry reassured him. “We’ll meet tomorrow night. And the night after that. For as long as you want.”

“Well.” Confronted with the tender look on Harry’s face, he didn’t know how to react. As impassively as he could, he said, “Alright then.”

Harry gave him a hopeful smile. He felt himself returning it.

***

Diagon Alley was overflowing. Even though Yuletide was only two weeks away, it had not yet properly snowed. Pansy took this as a personal attack—“It has to be a white Christmas!” she whined, over and over, as though Draco and Blaise could change the weather. Instead, they enjoyed an unseasonably bright day; the brisk breeze was the only reminder that they were now firmly in December. All sorts of vendors lined the cobblestoned streets, hawking their wares: a tall, thin man selling roasted chestnuts, three sickles a scoop; an irritable-looking witch who was attempting to subdue the bunches of mistletoe singing merrily from her basket; a young woman who must have been about their age, selling hot chocolate and apple cider. Draco bought them each a cup of steaming cider, and it was very good, he thought, sipping happily as they made their way to Gringotts. They were supposed to meet Theo and Lavender.

“Oh, look!” Pansy said, pointing towards the bookstore. Huddled against the cold was a band of carollers. “Isn’t that nice?”

As they picked up into an enthusiastically cheery tune, Draco grimaced. “I don’t like Christmas music.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You don’t like anything.”

He opened his mouth to argue with her—mostly out of habit, as he wasn’t really bothered—but he was interrupted when Pansy cried, “Theo! Lavender!”

They pushed through the crowd until Draco caught sight of them: Theo towered over everyone else, while Lavender looked very pretty in a teal peacoat and matching earmuffs.

“Hi!” Lavender called, rushing over to meet them. “How are you?” She and Pansy hugged, and before Draco knew what was happening, she had turned and embraced him, as well.

“Good! Very good!” Pansy said, reaching up to hug Theo. Lavender turned to Blaise, who looked rather bemused as she hugged him, too.

“It’s nice to see you all,” Lavender said, fixing her earmuffs as she pulled away from Blaise. The scar on her face shone pink in the sunlight.

“Theo, are you bringing Lavender to the Christmas dinner? At Blaise’s?” Pansy demanded.

“Of course,” Theo said. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

Pansy gave a little squeal, clapping her hands together. “I’m so glad!” Addressing Lavender, she asked, “Have you decided what you’re wearing?”

“Oh, er…” Lavender looked up at Theo, smiling sheepishly. “I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Blaise sighed. “Just wear any old thing.”

But Pansy was already talking over him. “I still haven’t found anything, either! I’m so worried! I’ve been through a dozen magazines.” Draco knew it: over the last week, he had given his opinion on what must have been a hundred sets of robes.

“Well…” Lavender was staring at Pansy, a bit startled. “We…we could try Twilfitt and Tatting’s?”

“Yes,” Pansy said breathlessly. “Yes, what a good idea. You don’t mind, do you, Theo? We won’t be long.”

Draco thought Theo looked relieved as he said, “No, no, you two go ahead.”

And they were off, Pansy chattering away as she dragged Lavender through the sea of people. It was decidedly quieter as they disappeared into the crowd.

“That was cruel of you, to let Pansy take her,” Blaise sneered.

“Lav’s fine,” Theo laughed. “She can handle herself. How’s Hogwarts?”

“Boring,” Blaise said, leading them along the lane. “Have you sorted out your Christmas shopping?”

“No,” Theo said, “but I’m glad Lav’s gone. I haven’t decided what to get her, yet.”

“I need to stop in at Flourish and Blotts,” Blaise said. “There’s a new book on herbs and spices my mother wants.” With a deep sigh, he added, “I suppose I’ll have to find something for Pansy, as well.”

“A Calming Draught,” Draco muttered. The others sniggered.

Flourish and Blotts was filled to bursting. The air smelled deliciously of cinnamon and cloves; the packed shelves were strung with glittering garlands. As Blaise hunted down the book for his mother, Draco and Theo perused the latest titles.

“Have you gotten that letter from Slughorn, yet?” Theo asked him.

“Oh. Er. Just about.” It wasn’t a complete lie—since he and Harry had started working next to each other in Potions, Slughorn had warmed up to him considerably. And his marks _had_ improved.

“The spot’s still open. I just need your CV—what N.E.W.T.s you’re sitting, your grades, any relevant experience. That sort of thing.”

“Okay.” Two competing thoughts struggled within him—on the one hand, he did like brewing potions, and the position Theo had described with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement certainly sounded interesting. And it wasn’t as though he had many other ideas for a career after Hogwarts. On the other hand, he still felt uneasy whenever he thought of the Ministry. His trial had been gruelling. At each hearing, the entirety of his past had been laid bare, teased apart and dissected so that a room full of strangers could determine his guilt and his fate.

Draco was lost in thought until Theo suddenly said, “I might get Lav a book on divination. She’s been keen on palmistry lately.”

Draco nodded towards the back of the shop. “Divination is down at that end.”

As they wove through the crowd, Theo asked, “Who do you still need to buy for, then?”

“Er…” He had already purchased for Blaise a new winter cloak he had been eyeing for months. For Pansy, he had ordered an absurdly expensive bottle of perfume. “Just my parents, I guess.”

“Any ideas?”

“None.”

“Well, you’d better get a move on.”

Draco grunted in agreement.

While Theo examined the various books on palmistry, Draco wandered over to another shelf. In truth, there was one person in particular he was struggling to gift. It was difficult to decide on something that would convey how he felt without being too sentimental.

As casually as he could, Draco strolled back over to Theo. “So, er. Did you have any other ideas? For Lavender?”

“Why?” Theo asked. “You don’t think she’ll like this?” He held up a thick tome.

“She will,” Draco said quickly.

“Now I’m not so sure.” Theo looked down at the book in his hand, unconvinced.

“She’ll like it. I was just…just curious.”

“Er…well, I thought about jewelry. But we only just started seeing each other, and that seemed a bit…”

“Yeah.”

“And she likes candles, so I thought, well, maybe a candle, but she’s got so many of them already. Oh,” Theo said suddenly, brightening, “she’s also started gardening—her flat has a balcony, and it’s south facing—so I thought I’d buy her some plants. Or a watering can, or some gloves, or something.”

“And?”

“Well…I dunno. She stopped talking about her garden a while ago. I think she might have killed everything.”

Draco snorted. “Oh dear.”

“I kept reminding her to put up some wards to protect it…for the winter, you know…but anyway…”

“She’ll like the book,” Draco said. “I’m sure she will.”

Flipping through the pages, Theo said lightly, “Is there someone you’re trying to shop for?”

Draco pursed his lips. “Pansy told you.”

“What?” Theo looked up at him, confused. “Pansy didn’t tell me anything. Why? What shouldn’t she have told me?”

“Oh.” He could feel himself turning red. “Forget it.”

“Draco…”

“I like Harry,” he blurted out. “We’ve been seeing each other. Not like that—it’s complicated. But I like him. He said he likes me. But I don’t know what that means.”

Very slowly, Theo closed the book. Finally, he said, “I thought something was strange, at the pub.”

“What do you mean?” Draco bristled.

Theo shrugged. “You kept looking at him. He kept looking at you. The only time he spoke was when Pansy brought up Slughorn, and he was angry for you.”

“That…that doesn’t mean anything. We’re just friends.”

Theo raised his eyebrows. “Really? I thought you said he likes you?”

“As a _friend._ ”

“Did he _say_ it was as a friend?”

“Well.” Something funny was happening in Draco’s stomach. He couldn’t tell if he felt sick or not. Either way, he very much did not want to have this conversation in Flourish and Blotts.

“Draco,” Theo sighed. “Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“Do what?” he snapped.

“Convince yourself that nothing good could possibly happen to you. That nobody could ever like you.”

“That’s…that’s not true at all,” he spluttered. “I happen to have a very healthy self-esteem, I’ll have you know.”

“Right,” Theo said skeptically.

“I do!”

“You act like an arrogant git because beneath it all, you’re scared,” Theo said.

“ _Scared_?” Draco was indignant now. “I’m not _scared_. I’ve faced the—the Dark—”

“You’re scared of being hurt. Of being let down again.”

Draco forgot to be outraged. He stared at Theo, who was calmly gazing back at him. “That’s not true,” he insisted.

“It is. And I know that’s why you won’t visit Azkaban with me, by the way. You’re afraid of your father. That he’ll disappoint you again.”

“That’s not true,” he said again, much quieter this time.

“You don’t have to have a relationship with your father,” Theo said. “If you want to cut him off, fine. But do it on your own terms. Not because you’re afraid.”

For several long moments, Draco was incapable of responding. His face still felt warm. Finally, he drew himself up. “Well. Thank you for that. I’m…I’m going to go browse now. I have a gift to buy.”

“Sure,” Theo said, returning to the book in his hands. He sounded amused. As Draco turned away, Theo called, “Oh, and Draco? You should tell Harry. You really should.” When Draco glared at him, he added, “I know people have let you down. But I don’t think he will.”

Draco couldn’t think of what to say, so he gave Theo a tight smile and then hurried away.

***

They were alone. Once again, the clearing was theirs. Even though it was dark, and even though it was cold, it was theirs. And somehow, it was peaceful, as though the grass and the ground bore their imprint from all the nights they had met there. As he settled onto the blanket, Draco realized that he felt safer in the forest than nearly anywhere else. And that was very odd, because the Forbidden Forest was full of frightening, dangerous things. But he wasn’t afraid. Not with Harry there, sitting cross-legged next to him, looking warm and inviting in his well-worn jumper.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Harry took Draco’s arm into his lap and began rolling up his sleeve. “How have you been? Any flashbacks?”

“Not really.” When Harry raised his eyebrows, he said, “They’re not flashbacks. I just…I don’t feel good. I don’t feel right.” And it was true—there was always a general sense of unease lurking within him. It refused to be shaken off.

“Maybe you should see Madam Pomfrey.”

“Absolutely not.”

Harry didn’t argue. He suspected that they were of the same mind when it came to asking for help. “Well,” he said, his voice optimistic, “maybe we’ll get a new memory tonight.”

“Maybe.” He had begun to doubt it. And, perhaps, he had begun not to care.

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Three…two…one…”

_Draco was shaking. His Mark burned. He was nearly blinded by the pain—the Dark Lord would arrive in moments, and he was furious. His aunt must have known. She was shrieking, the noises she made inhuman and terrible. His father was shouting now, and his mother still held him, trying to wipe the blood from his face. They would all die, he thought, but he didn’t regret it…he was glad, in a way…he had done something decent before dying…_

“No, no, _no_ ,” he moaned as Harry pulled away. “The same one. The same fucking one.” Without Granger there, he felt at greater liberty to express his frustration. And he did: he pounded his fist into the ground next to him, snarling in frustration as pain bloomed in his arm.

“I think it has to be that one,” Harry said shakily. “But Draco—in the memory—we didn’t see—what did he do?”

“Who?”

“Voldemort. When he got back, and he realized that we’d left…what did he do?”

Draco shook his head. He didn’t want to remember. He didn’t want to say.

“He…he tortured you, didn’t he?”

He couldn’t help but let out a sob. It tore at his throat. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter. I told you—I was glad to do it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said. His voice sounded faint, distant. “It was bad. I remember. My scar hurt. And I could see how furious he was…”

Suddenly gripped with an irrational anger, Draco sat up. He wiped away at the tears he hadn’t realized were gathering in his eyes. “Forget it, I said. I didn’t care at that point.”

“I need you to know something.” Harry had moved so that he knelt in front of Draco. “You didn’t deserve it. None of it. I didn’t want any of that to happen to you.”

“Alright,” Draco said. He couldn’t bear to listen to this.

“Draco…” Harry trailed off. He sounded as lost as Draco felt.

“Why is everything so fucked up?” Draco asked bitterly.

Harry gently placed his hands on Draco’s shoulders. “I’m going to hug you. Alright?” Draco nodded, and Harry rose to his knees, pulling Draco against his chest. Slowly, Draco wound his arms around Harry’s waist, hugging him back. He gave out a long, shuddering breath as he listened to Harry’s heartbeat. It was slow, steady, soothing.

“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly. “I don’t know why everything’s fucked up. But it’s not, is it? Not all of it.”

“It feels like it.”

“I know. But it’s not.”

He didn’t want to argue. Glimpses of memories flashed forward, unbidden: the Dark Lord’s unimaginable rage as he realized that Harry had, once again, escaped his grasp. And then the cool floor against Draco’s face as he dropped, trembling with pain, _Crucio_ lighting up every nerve in his body. He had understood, then, why their prisoners begged to die, begged for release. It was a glimmer of hope in the otherwise impenetrable darkness of blinding, unyielding pain—an end. An escape.

“You’re shaking,” Harry said. “Are you okay?” He pulled away and looked down at Draco, who stared back up at him. Just the sight of those green eyes blotted away his anxiety. Harry, he remembered, was his pole star.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay.”

They blinked at each other, neither of them capable of speaking the truth hanging between them. Or perhaps it was too momentous, too great, to be put into words. Harry’s hand came up to rest along his jaw.

“Draco,” Harry whispered. He sounded almost nervous. “I’m going to kiss you. Alright?”

His heart skipped a beat. And then another. And then a few more. He didn’t know what to say. Surely, he must be dreaming—or his mind had taken pity on him and deposited him into some wonderful fantasy in which Harry was cupping his face, staring down at him, their lips only inches apart.

Draco could do nothing else but nod mutely. And then Harry was kissing him, pressing their lips together so gently that he seemed almost afraid of breaking him. Draco, reacting on instinct, tightened his hold around Harry’s waist and pulled him closer. And he melted. He couldn’t have done anything but. As Harry deepened the kiss, both of his hands coming up to hold Draco’s face, he felt himself come apart. He had never felt anything like this. Not ever. The pain in his Mark became distant, absent, almost non-existent. He clung to Harry to stop himself from swaying. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. He caught himself groaning into Harry’s mouth as their tongues slid together. How had he ever imagined, for one instant, that he didn’t need Harry? That the sweet ache that had been coursing through him for ages was anything other than sharp, desperate need?

And then, all too soon, Harry pulled away. He was breathless, his eyes wide. And he was looking at Draco as though he wanted to consume him. Nobody had ever looked at him that way before. Draco swallowed thickly, trying to think of something to say. He didn’t know how to put into words the way his heart hammered against his chest as Harry took him in.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he managed to say.

“I don’t want to push you.”

“You’re not.”

“Okay.” Harry’s eyes roved over his face, as though cataloguing his every feature. Finally, he said, “I’m going to kiss you again.”

Draco pulled on Harry’s jumper and brought their lips together again. This time, he didn’t allow Harry to be gentle with him. He deepened the kiss, nearly dizzy as Harry moaned into his mouth. Any of the tension still residing in his body eased away as Harry kissed him fiercely. For perhaps the first time in his life he felt _wanted_ , and the thought was thrilling. He tentatively ran his hands across Harry’s broad shoulders, and he responded immediately, pulling Draco even more tightly against him. And now it was Draco’s turn to moan, the sound surprising him as it came out of his mouth. But Harry must have liked it, because he was running his hands across Draco’s chest, his arms.

They were both breathless when they broke away again. Harry’s cheeks were ruddy, his glasses askew. Draco reached up and fixed them.

“We should have started this ages ago,” Draco muttered. “You knew I liked you. You must have.”

“Maybe.” Harry licked his lips; they were swollen. “But I wanted to be sure.”

“Really?” Draco chuckled weakly. “I thought it was obvious.”

“Sometimes it was,” Harry said. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “But after everything…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Well.” He took a deep breath. “That should be easy, then. Because there’s a lot I want to do.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, his voice husky. He came to thread his fingers through Draco’s hair, tipping his head back ever so gently.

Draco hummed in pleasure. He didn’t think he could speak, not when Harry was drinking him in like that.

“I don’t want to push you.”

Draco shook his head, dismissing Harry’s concern. “Push me.”

Harry hesitated, as though waiting to see if Draco would change his mind. When he didn’t, Harry drew him in and kissed him again, this time hungrily, as though he, like Draco, had imagined this moment hundreds of times before. Draco, urgent to feel some kind of contact, slipped his hands under Harry’s jumper, and then under his shirt, sighing as he finally felt smooth, warm skin. He could hardly believe his own boldness. Harry gasped into Draco’s mouth, rocking his hips forward ever so gently. Draco traced his fingertips along Harry’s sides. It felt nearly forbidden, groping Harry under his clothes, and that thrilled him. And Harry was so quick to respond—wonderful little noises were coming out of his mouth as Draco traced along his ribs.

Abruptly, Harry pulled away. Draco began to whine his displeasure when he moved instead to kiss along Draco’s neck, and that was when he thought he might really, truly dissolve into Harry’s arms. The wet heat of Harry’s mouth as he nuzzled and nipped at his neck was overwhelming. He brought his arms up around Harry’s shoulders in an effort to anchor himself. Harry, for his part, seemed intent on driving him mad: his hands were roaming now, traveling up and down Draco’s back. Then, just as Draco felt another moan rising up out of him, Harry sucked hard on the spot just above his collarbone.

“ _Fuck._ ” Draco twisted his neck further, allowing Harry better access as he licked at the sensitive skin. “Fuck, do that again.” And so he did, sucking greedily at Draco’s neck.

He needed more. More of what, he couldn’t say, but he needed it. Before he could hesitate, Draco leaned back and dragged Harry down with him. Arousal twisted in his stomach when he felt Harry’s erection pressing against his thigh. And…fuck. He wanted that. He wanted it so badly. The trouble was, he didn’t know how to ask. Harry, meanwhile, had resumed his ministrations at Draco’s neck, drawing little whimpers from him as he went. Desperate for some kind of friction, he rocked up against Harry, groaning in frustration at the lack of contact.

Harry drew back and considered him with hazy eyes.

“You can…” Draco swallowed hard, trying to slow his breathing. “I want you to.”

“What?” Harry asked. The expression on his face, the rough quality of his voice, had Draco crumbling to pieces. He sounded lost. And the thought that _he_ was the one bringing Harry to this point was too much for him.

He didn’t want to say it; was too embarrassed to say it. Very quietly, he mumbled, “You can have me.”

Harry blinked at him. He seemed to come back to consciousness, as if drifting out of a dream. “Not…” He shook his head. “Not here.”

“What?” Draco’s heart stopped.

Harry gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m not going to do it _here_ , on the ground, in the middle of the forest. You deserve better than that.”

That, of course, only stoked Draco’s arousal further, just as it sparked off something sweet and warm in the pit of his stomach. In a shaky voice, he breathed, “Okay.”

Harry clambered off of Draco and came to lay by his side, propped up on his elbow. Draco turned and curled into Harry, grateful for the firm, strong hand that came to stroke his back.

“Look at you,” Harry said, and he was indeed staring down at Draco, taking him in. “God, I want you.”

“Have me, then.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “I will. But not here. For now…I just want to look at you. Be with you.”

“Okay.” Draco drew closer to Harry’s warmth. He closed his eyes and focused on Harry’s rhythmic breathing. The sound was so soothing, so constant, that he felt his own heart steady. And again, he felt safe.

***

Draco stalled for as long as he could. He listened absently as Blaise rambled on about his mother, who was anxious about hosting the Christmas dinner and driving Blaise around the bend. He sat on his bed, fiddling with his cuffs as Blaise went on and on in his bored drawl, knotting his tie one way, checking the mirror, and then changing it. Running out of ways to dawdle, Draco dumped the contents of his satchel onto the bed and began to sort through his quills, setting aside the broken ones. Finally, Blaise was about to leave for breakfast, when he suddenly remembered that he needed to hand in an assignment for Astronomy. He rifled through his desk, starting up _again_ on his rant about his mother, until Draco was about ready to tear his hair out. At long last, he found his essay, and he left. Silence rang through the bedroom as Draco found himself alone.

At once, he shoved the quills and bits of parchment back into his bag. Taking a deep breath, he approached the mirror hanging from the wardrobe. It had been too dark to check when he had finally crept into their dormitory long after midnight, and he hadn’t dared look in the lavatory when Blaise might burst in at any moment. Now, he dragged down the edge of his collar, and gasped at the sight of the purple bruise blossoming above his collarbone. Harry had marked him. He brought his fingers up to brush against the sullied skin. Deep, cloudy violet with little specks of yellow. He felt himself growing hard. Some crazed part of him wanted to undo the first few buttons on his shirt, pull his collar down further, and march into the Great Hall with his new mark clearly on display. But he couldn’t, of course. That would be unthinkably foolish. So he yanked his collar back up, covering the bruise as best he could, and headed down for breakfast.

As Draco walked into the Great Hall, he couldn’t stop his eyes from sliding over to the Gryffindor table. Harry sat near the end, between Weasley and Granger. There was something so strange about seeing Harry in the Great Hall, with his friends, casually eating breakfast with no outward sign that he and Draco had kissed last night. It was almost too surreal to imagine. Taken aback, Draco froze in the doorway; he only moved when someone ran into him, squeaking, “Sorry! Sorry!” Embarrassed, he pulled his satchel up higher onto his shoulder and headed towards Pansy and Blaise, who were pouring over the _Daily Prophet._

“Lots of changes at the Ministry,” Blaise said as he sat down.

“Oh?” Draco reached for the kettle.

“Shacklebolt’s turning things around. Doesn’t want Dementors in Azkaban…He’s looking to restructure some departments, sort out the Wizengamot…”

“These sorts of things always happen after a war,” Pansy said wisely. “And look here— _'The Minister has called for a review of the use of Veritaserum and other means of extracting confessions.’_ He’s serious, isn’t he?”

“He was at my trial,” Draco said quietly. Blaise and Pansy looked up from the paper, surprised. Draco almost never spoke about his trial. “He never said much of anything. He was fair, though.”

“He seems nice,” Pansy said uncertainly.

“He put a lot of stock into what Harry had to say.”

“Were you surprised?” Blaise asked. “When Harry testified for you?”

“Not…not really.” Over at the Gryffindor table, Harry was reading a letter. He looked so nice, Draco thought, his hair wild as ever, his brows furrowed, his fingers toying with the corner of the parchment. “I didn’t think he’d let me rot in there.”

“He didn’t have much good to say about your father, though,” Blaise muttered.

Draco found himself bristling. For some reason, he was offended on Harry’s behalf. “He told the truth. That’s all. If anyone deserves to spend the rest of their life in Azkaban, it’s my father.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy sighed. “This is why I hate reading the paper first thing in the morning. Blaise, can’t you find the Quidditch section?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Draco said. He pushed away his untouched cup of tea and rose to his feet. “I need to send a letter. See you at lunch.”

“Blaise!” Pansy hissed. “Now you’ve upset him!”

Their bickering followed him as he rushed out of the hall. In truth, Draco didn’t have a letter to send, but he absolutely did not feel like discussing his father. The very mention of him brought up a fresh tidal wave of anxiety that lapped at him fiercely as he climbed the stairs to the Arithmancy classroom. By the time he pushed into the cold, stone room, his forehead was damp with sweat, and he doubted very much that it was from the climb. He felt shaky, uneasy, as though a flashback was about to pounce on him from some angle that he couldn’t detect. To give himself something to do, Draco pulled out his quill, an inkpot, and a fresh foot of parchment.

Why did they need to bring up his father? Why? Why was everyone so curious about whether or not he visited Azkaban? It was his business, and his alone. They couldn’t possibly understand what it was like to have a Death Eater for a father—other than Theo, and at least his father had categorically forbidden him from joining. In Draco’s estimation, that made him at least more human than his own father. Not for the first time, Draco was gripped with the sudden urge to leave. He had been acquitted; he should be able to access a visa. And there were times when the entire world felt open to him, as though he could pick a spot on the map and start a new life in any country, any city. But then, a timid little voice reminded him, there was Harry. He and Harry were…something. He didn’t know what yet. But he couldn’t just leave Harry. And he knew, with a dull sense of resignation, that he couldn’t leave his mother, either. Even Pansy and Blaise, nuisances though they were, kept him tied to Britain.

The softly-spoken conversations around him came to an end as Vector strode into the classroom. “I hope you’ve all been studying,” she said sternly as she came to face them at the front of the room. She was engulfed in yards and yards of thick, grey fabric. “We’re going to start with a quiz, and I expect all of you to score ‘Exceeds Expectations’ or above. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco had gone cold. He didn’t want to write a quiz—not today, when his nerves were on edge. He cursed himself for eating nothing at breakfast. Vector swept through the rows, passing them complicated numbers charts. “You will complete the chart,” she said, “and then you will provide me with an explanation of the magical properties of the numbers you derive from your calculations. You have one hour.”

Bracing himself, Draco picked up the chart. As he scanned the little rows and columns…he let out the breath he had been holding. This wasn’t too bad. In fact, he could already see the calculation coming together in his mind. Excited, he dipped his quill into his inkpot and went to work, carefully scribbling his notations above the numbers and then adding each digit in turn. It was somehow comforting to be drawn into the calculation—it was exact, precise, unchanging. So long as he knew the formula, he could wring out the meaning of the text. He finished in record time; only Granger, seated at the front, had finished before him. Had he done it correctly? Had he missed something? How could he have finished so soon? Nervous, Draco checked his work again, but he could find no mistakes. According to the large clock hanging above Vector’s head, they still had another twenty minutes to go. Unsure of what else to do with himself, Draco read over his answers several more times. He had done, he thought, rather well.

“Put down your quills,” Vector’s voice finally came. She raised her wand and fifteen pages of parchment swooped towards her desk; Abbott, who had still been writing, gave a little cry as her chart snuck out from under her quill. “Now, please open your textbooks and turn to page fifty-five. Today, we’ll be discussing…”

Draco did his best to take notes and to focus, but it was difficult when his hand kept straying up to his collar. He touched, very lightly, at the spot where Harry had bruised him. They would be meeting again tonight, to work on his Mark, but Draco hardly seemed to pay mind to his Mark anymore. It had nearly disappeared. Perhaps that was good enough, Draco thought, as he watched Vector draw a convoluted diagram on the blackboard. He could settle for good enough.

***

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

Harry’s hands were warm on his skin. It had finally begun to snow. Goosebumps erupted along Draco’s arms as Harry traced his fingers across what remained of his Mark.

“Do you think we’ll get the same one?” Harry asked quietly. “The same memory?”

“Maybe.” Draco hesitated, and then said, “I keep dreaming about it. I try to stop, but I can’t.”

Harry glanced up at him. “Really? Maybe because we keep seeing it?”

He shrugged. “I’m tired of it.”

“I know.” Harry took out his wand. “Maybe try to think of something else, something different. Hermione said it might help.”

Draco closed his eyes and allowed himself to exhale. He cast around for an unpleasant memory related to his Mark, and that wasn’t difficult to do: he recalled Macnair’s sallow face, inches from his own…and then he moved on to consider the night he had been Marked, the unbelievable pain in his arm…and then the Battle, when he had heard Vincent shrieking, succumbing to the flames…

“Are you okay?” Harry whispered. He was stroking Draco’s arm.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Do it now.”

“Okay.” The tip of Harry’s wand twisted into his flesh. “Three…two…one…”

_Draco was so close to Potter’s face that he could see himself reflected in his glasses. Though his features were swollen and twisted, it was evident who he was. The Dark Lord would know. And he would kill Potter. And he would win. If they were the ones to deliver Potter to the Dark Lord, his father would be forgiven…he would become one of the favourites again…and they would have power again, and Draco would be protected…protected from Greyback, from Macnair…But Potter was struggling to look up at him, and he felt none of the excitement he should have felt…Only dread, cold and sticky in his stomach as he forced himself not to collapse…_

When Harry took his wand away, Draco’s Mark burned miserably. His mind felt sluggish as it whirled through his memories. Draco grit his teeth and rubbed his hand against his arm, trying to dissipate some of the pain. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw Harry gazing at him, a sad look on his face. They both knew the same thing. It was Draco who decided to voice it. “It has to be that memory. That’s the only way.”

Harry nodded.

“But I won’t erase it. I won’t.”

“Can I see your Mark?”

“If you want.”

Very gently, Harry took Draco’s arm and turned it, so that the little blemish of his Mark shone before them. “You can hardly see it.”

“I…”

“Really, Draco, it’s barely there.”

“I don’t think I care anymore,” he muttered. “About the Mark. It doesn’t bother me like it used to.”

Harry glanced up at him in surprise. “Really?”

“I mean, you can hardly see it, like you said. And…I don’t know. I don’t think about it that much anymore.”

“Okay.” Harry was studying his face, as though trying to understand what this meant. “So do we stop, then? Do we let it go?”

“That’s the problem.” Draco turned away from Harry and scowled resolutely at the giant oak tree. “I’m worried that if we don’t get rid of it, these flashbacks will keep happening.”

“You think they’re related?”

“I mean, they must be,” he said. “I thought that if we could erase the Mark, then I might feel better, and that the flashbacks would stop.”

“It seems like they’re getting worse,” Harry said, his voice pained.

“They are. I thought it all might be coming to a head, and that it would ease once my Mark was gone. But if we can’t erase it, then…”

“Let’s wait for Hermione to do her research,” Harry said. “She’ll think of something. And in the meantime, the term is almost over, and then you can relax. You’ll be home, you’ll be more comfortable—”

“I’m not going home,” Draco scoffed. “I’m staying here for Christmas.”

“What?” Harry frowned. “Why?”

“Because I want to,” he said, well aware that he was being petulant.

“Oh.” Harry blinked at him. “I just thought you’d want to see your mother. You two seemed…close.”

“I’d rather spend my Christmas cooking in the Hogwarts kitchens,” he said stiffly.

Harry snorted. “That could be arranged.”

Draco laughed in spite of himself. Tilting his head back onto the pillow to take in the cold air, he said, “There’s nothing left for me at the Manor. Nothing. I have nothing to say to my mother.”

“You’re upset,” Harry pointed out.

“What? No, I’m not,” he snapped. “I’m not bothered at all. I’m looking forward to it. A nice, quiet Christmas, where I don’t have to shake hands and make small talk with a room full of idiots I barely know. I’ll be glad to be alone.”

“I was going to stay at Hogwarts, too.”

It was Draco’s turn to be surprised. “Why? I thought you’d be spending Christmas with the Weasleys.”

“They’re going to France, to meet Fleur’s family. I think they want to get away…first Christmas without Fred, you know…”

Draco did know. It had occurred to him several times in the months leading up to December that for many families, this would be their first Christmas without a loved one who had died during the Battle. “And Granger’s staying with her parents, is it?”

“Right. They…er…they have some catching up to do.”

“But why can’t you go to France with the Weasleys?” Draco asked. “I don’t understand.”

“I only just found out,” Harry said. “And it’s so much paperwork…I would need a visa, you know…to travel…”

“I’ll bet Theo knows someone who can speed up your application. And besides,” Draco said, giving Harry a wry smile, “you’re the Boy Who Lived Twice. They’re going to approve you on the spot. They’ll be begging you to visit.”

Harry laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure.”

“Well.” Draco tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible as he said, “You could stay here with me. At Hogwarts.”

The grin left Harry’s face. “You said you wanted to be alone. I don’t want to…If you need space, I want you to have it…”

“No, I don’t mind,” Draco said quickly. “I mean. It’s fine. If you want to.”

“Well. If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure. I don’t say things unless I’m sure.”

“I want to give you space.”

“Don’t. I don’t want you to. I’ve had space my whole life. So…don’t.”

Even though he was embarrassed, Draco forced his eyes up to meet Harry’s. Draco reminded his heart, once again, to settle down, to resist bruising his ribs as it pounded in his chest. He needed to get a grip. But it was becoming difficult to ignore the feel of Harry’s knee against his leg, the pout of his lips as he took Draco in. They stayed like that for one moment, gauging the other’s reaction, until finally, Harry said, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Even as butterflies burst in his stomach, Draco forced his face into as neutral an expression as possible. It wouldn’t do, he thought, to show Harry how quickly he fell apart at his words. Instead, he teased, “You think?”

“Yeah. Because I don’t think I can stop myself anymore.”

“Then don’t.”

When their lips met, Harry responded just how Draco had hoped he would—he groaned into Draco’s mouth, tangling his fingers in his hair. In some distant part of his mind, Draco cursed himself for not having sorted out his feelings earlier. He could have been kissing Harry all this time. He was so warm under Draco’s hands, radiating heat through his cloak. Harry quickly took control, and Draco was happy to let him, sighing as Harry sucked on his bottom lip. He was already hard, but that was to be expected, when Harry was kissing him as though he was _his._

He whined when Harry pulled away; the sudden loss of heat was distressing. But he needn’t have worried, because Harry shifted to straddle his lap, looking down at Draco hungrily as he settled in.

“Too many clothes,” Draco grumbled, fumbling with Harry’s cloak.

He chuckled. “We’ll manage.”

Draco dragged Harry down for another kiss, and this one was rougher, more urgent. Suddenly, Harry pulled away again, and Draco made to protest when instead he moved lower, coming to kiss along the side of Draco’s neck. And that yanked a gasp from him: startled at the intimacy, he clutched Harry’s cloak. He couldn’t help but let out a deep moan as Harry sucked on the tender point at the crook of his neck, nibbling and nipping until Draco began to squirm. And then, just as it became too much, Harry seemed to read his mind and he licked instead at the abused flesh, mouthing gently at him before beginning his assault anew.

Draco realized, with a start, that Harry was going to leave another mark on his neck. He melted at the thought, nearly going limp in Harry’s arms as he let out a little cry. All the blood rushed to his cock as he thought of Harry _marking_ him, _claiming_ him, letting everyone know without a doubt that Draco was his. He tilted his head to allow Harry further access, groaning again as Harry bit down, hard. Draco’s hands were wandering—over Harry’s back, down his arms, through his hair, wherever he could manage to reach. He was restless as Harry sucked gently along his collarbone.

“Fuck,” Harry breathed into his skin. He sounded as awed as Draco felt. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”

“Yeah?” Draco asked hoarsely. He was impressed by his own ability to say anything at all.

“Draco…” Harry frowned and moved to inspect his neck. “There are bruises. I think I…I think I bruised you.”

“That’s from before,” he said, bringing up a hand to cover his neck. “And it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.”

Harry looked very guilty as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. Here, let me heal it.” He began to reach for his wand.

“No.” Draco spoke so forcefully that he surprised even himself. “I don’t want you to.”

Harry blinked at him. “Are you sure?”

He was quickly coming to realize how many of Harry’s expressions he had grown to like over the years—the bemused look currently occupying his face was one of his favourites. Needing urgently to feel Harry’s lips on him again, Draco tugged him forward. Softly, so softly that it made Draco’s heart ache, Harry brought his hands up to cradle Draco’s head. Harry’s weight against him was comforting, an anchor preventing him from drifting off. He felt, for the briefest of moments, what he swore was Harry’s erection pressing into his thigh, and that was nearly too much for him. It was very difficult to resist pulling off Harry’s bloody cloak; his hands wanted desperately to do it. He distracted himself by weaving his fingers through that mess of hair.

Just as he was about to work up the courage to remove the stupid cloak, Harry pulled away. Draco instantly reached out for him, unwilling to let go of that soothing warmth, but Harry didn’t stray far; he sat atop Draco, shaking his head. Draco whined and tried to drag him down, but Harry resisted.

“I don’t want to push you,” he said.

“ _Harry._ ” Exasperated, Draco brought his hands up to cover his face. “You aren’t _pushing_ me. I want this. I’m not some…some sad victim.”

“Of course you’re not,” Harry said in a sombre voice. “You’re incredible.”

Draco made an embarrassed noise and looked away.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Harry went on. “All term, it’s been like this.”

Surprised, Draco looked back up at Harry’s face. He had that pensive expression again.

“I know this is a lot. We can take our time.”

Draco didn’t trust himself to speak. He tried to convey the pounding in his heart, the roaring in his ears, by shakily grasping Harry’s hands. The ache in his Mark was a distant memory.

***

As the little black knight dragged himself off the board, he shook his fist in Draco’s direction. Draco scowled back. He was losing spectacularly: his pile of broken, defeated pieces was growing by the minute. But he didn’t really mind; he had always been lousy at chess. That was, he suspected, one of the main reasons Blaise insisted on playing him. Unbothered, he took a bite of his apple as the knight cleared the board. Pansy sat next to him, reading through one of her novels, looking up occasionally when one of them gloated or cursed.

Blaise was leaning onto the table, resting his chin in his hands. He opened his mouth to direct a piece but then paused, hesitating. His shrewd eyes darted across the board. After a moment, he pursed his lips and resumed his pondering.

“I wonder what’s for dinner,” Pansy said distractedly. “I’m starving.”

“Something light, I hope,” Blaise said. “I’m not going to fit into my dress robes.”

“That’s because you have double servings of everything,” Pansy quipped.

Ignoring her, he said, “Rook to E4. Check.”

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, sitting up straighter in his chair. He didn’t care about losing, not really, but he wanted to put up a bit of a fight.

“Look,” Pansy said, leaning over to examine the board. “Just move your king there—or here, move your pawn—”

“Oi, don’t help him!” Blaise snapped, reaching forward to push her away. “That’s cheating!”

“Draco’s lousy at chess,” Pansy said. “That’s why you play him and not me.”

“Thanks a lot,” Draco grumbled. He took another bite of his apple and tried to predict the moves in his head.

“Blaise, what does your mother want us to bring for dinner?” Pansy asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “She hasn’t written me in days. I think she’s gone into a complete panic.”

“I don’t know why she offered to host,” Pansy sighed.

“It’s to impress that man she’s seeing,” Blaise said. “I think they’re on the verge of ending things, thank God.”

“Draco,” Pansy said suddenly, reaching out to grip his arm. “Theo said he needs your CV, for that job application. Have you written it yet?”

“Er. Yes.” This was technically true: he had composed it, only to lock it away in his drawer of things he would rather forget, along with his mother’s letters.

“And what about that letter of recommendation from Slughorn?” Pansy asked. “They’ll start interviewing people soon, Draco.”

“I’m working on it,” he said tersely.

“Why don’t we go now? Slughorn is probably in his office. Come on.”

“Let him be!” Blaise said, shooing her away. “Let him concentrate.”

“You’re going to win anyway, Blaise, what does it matter?” she snapped. “Draco has more important things to worry about than chess.”

“I’ll go with you.”

All three of them looked up as Harry came to stand beside Blaise, hands in his pockets. In sharp contrast to Pansy, who was gaping up at him, flabbergasted, Harry had an easy smile on his face. When nobody spoke, Harry said again, “I’ll go with you. To see Slughorn.”

Draco was at a loss for words. He had spent weeks gazing at Harry across the Great Hall; it was surreal to have him _right there,_ talking with them as though he regularly came over to the Slytherin table.

“That’s a great idea!” Pansy said happily. “Blaise and I should go pack, anyway.”

“But our game…” Blaise moaned, staring longingly at the board.

“I’ll wait,” Harry offered. He looked rather amused.

“No, no, no,” Pansy said. She stood up and collected her things. “Come _on,_ Blaise, you can help me decide which shoes to bring.”

Blaise gave a deep, longsuffering sigh before following her out of the Great Hall.

“Are you coming?” Harry asked.

Looking to stall, Draco held up his apple. “I’m eating.”

Harry smirked, no doubt seeing through his ruse, but he didn’t press. Instead, he sat across from Draco. Over at the Hufflepuff table, a group of students had turned to gawk at them. Harry shifted slightly, blocking them from Draco’s view. “Ignore them,” he said.

“Right.” Draco bit into his apple, insisting to himself that he didn’t mind if people stared. He was used to it, by now. Harry, it seemed, wasn’t bothered at all. His eyes swept over the chess board.

“Wow.” Harry reached out and toyed with one of Blaise’s bishops. “You really _are_ bad at chess.”

“No,” he protested, “Blaise is just very good.”

“Mmm.” Harry drummed his hands on the table.

“You don’t have to come with me, you know,” Draco said. “I can do it myself.”

“I know,” Harry said evenly.

“I don’t need help. I’m perfectly capable of asking Slughorn on my own.”

“You are,” he agreed.

“I’m not some…some helpless idiot who can’t ask for a letter.”

“I know. I just want to spend time with you.”

Draco’s breath caught in his throat. Harry, meanwhile, continued to smile at him in that relaxed, unaffected way of his. Befuddled, Draco occupied himself by taking another bite of his apple. He was aware of Harry’s eyes on him, watching as he absently wiped his mouth.

“Draco,” Harry said. “Pull down your collar. Let me see your neck.”

“What?” he asked, startled.

“Let me see.” Harry’s expression hadn’t changed, but his voice was lower, huskier.

Draco looked around the Great Hall to check if anyone was looking their way. Slowly, he fingered at his collar, and then dragged it down, until the edges of his collarbone were exposed. He heard Harry inhale sharply. His eyes—which had become darker, Draco thought, hungrier—were tracing the contours of his neck. He knew what Harry saw, because he himself had examined it this morning. A mottled, purple bruise extended across his throat, clearly marking where Harry had kissed him.

“And you don’t want me to heal it?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head. There came a sudden burst of conversation as a loud group of Ravenclaw students strode into the hall; Draco pulled up his collar again, flattening it. He felt shy, incapable of meeting Harry’s eyes.

“You don’t have to go see Slughorn, you know,” Harry said. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I do if I want that job at the Ministry,” he muttered.

“ _Do_ you?”

“I…I don’t know.” Draco pulled out his wand and tapped on the apple core, Vanishing it. “I think it’s something I would be interested in. But…I don’t know if I could work at the Ministry, after what happened over the summer. Every day I would go in for work, and I would remember, you know.”

Harry had that worried look on his face again. “Are you okay? You’re really pale.”

“I’m fine,” he said. Before Harry could notice his hands trembling, he pressed them against the table, urging them to stop.

“What if you apply now, and then you can decide later?”

“Maybe.” He tried to smile at Harry, to reassure him that everything was fine, but it was difficult when the sharp tide of anxiety rose up in him so abruptly. Looking to change topics, Draco asked, “And what about you? Anything from the Wasps?”

“Mr. Dawson wrote me a while ago,” he said. “He wants to see me fly again, he said.”

“That’s good news,” Draco said earnestly. “That’s really good.”

“Yeah. But I haven’t been able to practice much. That’s the problem with being captain…I’m so busy telling everyone else what to do, I barely have time to fly.”

As subtly as he could, Draco took a deep breath in, trying to focus on the warm air of the Great Hall as it filled his lungs. Unwanted flashes of noise crashed through his mind—the lift at the Ministry creaking into place, the grate dragging open, the cool, disembodied voice…

He tried to focus as Harry spoke excitedly, leaning forward over the table, “We could fly together, over the holidays! You could help me practice. You’ve got your broom, haven’t you?”

And that proved to be too much for him, because now he was assaulted with Vincent’s haunting shrieks, and the scalding heat of the Fiendfyre as it raced after them, and the fear leaping in his chest, threatening to engulf him, as he clutched Harry’s waist and they barrelled towards the door…

He was dimly aware of Harry’s hands on his shoulders, his voice urgently muttering in his ear. As the awful vision of the Room of Requirement slipped away, his first thought was that he was in the Great Hall, and that people would surely stare. When Draco finally cracked his eyes open, that fear was confirmed: coming out of the fog, he could just make out several heads swiveled towards them. Urgent whispering filled the room.

“You’re okay,” Harry said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Harry took Draco’s satchel, swung it over his shoulder, and then helped Draco to his feet. He swayed, but Harry was there to support him.

“Blaise’s chess set,” Draco said groggily.

“Right, hang on.” Very gently, Harry set him down onto the bench, and then folded the board and assembled the chess pieces. He threw the lot into Draco’s bag. And then he was back at Draco’s side, lifting him up and helping him out of the Great Hall. When Draco saw that he was leading him to the dungeon, he pulled back.

“Not the common room,” he groaned. “I don’t want people to see me like this.”

“Well…okay.” Harry hesitated, and then redirected them across the hall and down a narrow corridor. “Here, let’s find an empty room.”

Draco stumbled along as Harry led him into an unused classroom. He dropped into a chair and rested his head on a desk, grateful for the feel of the cool, smooth wood against his cheek. Harry closed the door and then drew a chair to sit next to him. For several moments, they said nothing. The silence was interrupted only by the noise of Draco’s deep inhalations and sharp exhalations as he tried to steady his heartbeat.

“I’m sorry I set you off,” Harry said. Even in the dark classroom, his face looked very white.

“It’s…it’s the flying,” Draco said. His voice was hoarse. “Ever since what happened in the Room, I haven’t been able to fly.”

“I didn’t know,” Harry said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine.”

“Draco…” Harry reached out and, very gently, placed his hand next to Draco’s. Their fingers barely touched. “Your flashbacks…I’m worried.”

“I know,” he said wearily. “They’re getting worse.”

“Can I touch you?”

Draco nodded, and Harry slipped their fingers together.

“Do you remember what Luna said? At the pub?”

Draco closed his eyes, trying to recall. “She said my memories are repressed. That I need to let them out.”

“I keep thinking about it,” Harry said. “She might have been onto something.”

“You want me to talk to her,” Draco surmised.

“Only if you want to,” Harry said quickly. “But…I think it might help. It can’t make things worse.”

“I don’t know.” Draco pushed himself up; to his relief, the room was no longer spinning. “I don’t know what I want to do anymore.”

Harry lifted Draco’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He grazed his lips across the pale knuckles. It was utterly captivating, the way his skin dragged against Harry’s lips. And, foolish though he felt, he couldn’t help the thought that their fingers looked as though they were meant to be intertwined, that they fit together so easily as Harry entangled them.

“What can I do?” Harry asked.

Draco wanted to say, but he didn’t know how. Silently, he pleaded, and Harry somehow understood, because he leaned forward and brought their lips together in a chaste kiss. Desperate to be distracted from the panic coursing through him, the flashback still gripping at the edges of his thoughts, Draco reached forward and brought his hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pulling him closer. And, once again, Harry understood his need before he had to voice it. He started at the point where Draco’s jaw met his ear, kissing softly, before trailing down to his throat. There, he licked at the exposed skin; when he drew away, Draco felt goosebumps prickle across his arms. He let out a little moan as Harry moved in again, this time nibbling at Draco’s neck. Their hands were still clasped; somewhere in the haze of his mind, Draco was dimly aware of Harry’s thumb as it rubbed his palm. All of his attention returned to Harry’s mouth when he suddenly sucked down, drawing out a pulse of pain that left Draco gasping.

Harry untangled their hands, and Draco was about to reach out for him again when he felt nimble fingers working on his shirt buttons. One came apart, and then a second, and then a third, and then a fourth. And then Harry’s warm hand was reaching in to drag across his chest. Draco mumbled something he himself couldn’t decipher. Harry kissed down his throat, past his collarbones, and then along his chest, pulling Draco’s shirt aside as he went. Draco’s hands came up to twist within Harry’s messy hair. He tipped his head back when Harry bit down, pulling away and licking tenderly before it could really hurt. And then he was sucking at a spot just above his nipple, and Draco was so hard it _ached_. Abruptly, Harry pulled away and came back up to kiss him. His cheeks were pink, his mouth red and glistening.

“I get so scared,” Harry said. The look on his face was painfully sincere.

“Of what?” Draco murmured. He cupped Harry’s jaw, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“Of hurting you. Of causing a flashback…I don’t want to remind you of that…of that time…”

“This is nothing like that.” Draco kissed him again, so softly their lips barely touched. But Harry was still frowning. “It’s like every time you touch me, I forget a little more. I become myself a little more.”

“Yeah?” Harry breathed. He was leaning into Draco’s touch.

“Mmm.” Draco took a moment to consider Harry—his open, trusting face, the desire in his eyes. Very quietly, he said, “I’ll talk to Lovegood. I’ll ask what she thinks.”

Harry beamed at him. “You will? Should we go now?”

“No,” Draco said. “Now, I need to go help Pansy pack. Otherwise, she’ll never make it home.” Harry chuckled. “Do you think she’ll be free tonight, though? To come to our spot?”

“Maybe.” He paused, and then said, “I like that. I like that you call it our spot.”

For weeks now, Draco had thought of the clearing as their spot, but always with a touch of melancholy, well aware that someday they would stop visiting it. It was their spot. But he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Our spot,” Harry said, as though testing the words on his lips. Touched, Draco smiled, and then leaned forward to kiss those same lips again.

***

Harry and Lovegood were already in the clearing when Draco arrived. Harry smiled, almost apologetically, as Lovegood turned around to greet him. She was dressed in perhaps the strangest winter cloak Draco had ever seen—in the dark of the forest, it looked black, but little planets and figures of the solar system glided around the sleeves and the skirt. That alone caused Draco to stop short.

“Oh, hello, Draco,” she said. “This is such a peaceful spot, isn’t it?”

“Er.” He glanced over at Harry, who nodded. “It is, yeah.”

“The Thestrals aren’t far from here.” She walked towards the edge of the clearing, looking up at the bare branches above them. “And look, the trees are saying hello.”

“Should we all sit?” Harry asked. He didn’t seem perturbed at all by Lovegood’s peculiar behaviour.

“That would be nice,” she said.

Harry swept away the snow with a few twists of his wand. He conjured a large, thick blanket for them—Ravenclaw colours, perhaps in honour of their guest—and they sat down. If Lovegood thought it was odd, to meet them at this time of night in the Forbidden Forest, she didn’t show it. Instead, she turned to smile at Draco, who felt as though he was being appraised.

“We wanted to ask you about something,” Harry started. “We were curious about what you said the other night, at the pub.”

“About moon frogs?” Lovegood asked. She still hadn’t taken her eyes off Draco.

Harry coughed to cover an ill-disguised laugh. “No. Not the moon frogs.”

“My memories,” Draco said stiffly. He felt ill at ease under Lovegood’s watchful stare. “You said they’re repressed.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Can I have a look?”

Draco nodded, and Lovegood leaned in closer. Their noses were nearly touching as she examined his eyes, moving back and forth as Draco tried to maintain a straight face. Finally, she sat back.

“You’re very troubled, aren’t you?” Lovegood asked. Draco was so stunned that he didn’t know how to answer. “I can see them all, it’s so clear…So many memories you’ve tried to repress.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked, voicing Draco’s confusion.

“It happened to my father.” Lovegood finally looked away, and instead peered up at the night sky. Without the shade of the leafy canopy, the stars were visible. “When my mother died, he tried to forget everything.”

“By erasing his memories, you mean?” Harry asked.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. He tried to suppress them, by distracting himself.”

Draco and Harry exchanged a concerned look. But Lovegood didn’t seem bothered; she was still sitting back to take in the sky.

“And then what happened?” Harry finally asked.

“Well, he had to go to St. Mungo’s for a while. To see a Healer, I forget her name…she was a very nice lady, though…she used to give me sweets…”

“A Healer?” At the thought, Draco felt ill.

“A Mind Healer,” Lovegood said. “He came home once he was better. He still sees her sometimes, though.”

“But your father…” Draco hesitated, wondering how to phrase this without offending Lovegood. She seemed, however, quite unflappable. “Our situations are different. I’m not pretending to forget my memories…we’ve erased them.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Lovegood asked. She was now staring at him again, eyes wide with surprise.

“No,” he grumbled. “It isn’t. It’s not at all the same thing.”

But Harry leaned forward, touching Lovegood’s arm. “Why do you think it’s the same thing, Luna?”

Serene as ever, she said, “Erasures leave traces. I thought everyone knew that.”

“Erasures leave traces?” Harry repeated.

“That’s right.” She nodded. “Memories leave marks on us. Not just on our minds, in our thoughts…but on our bodies. And so do erasures.”

Harry looked horrified. “So by erasing your memories, I’ve _marked_ you,” he said. “Permanently.”

Draco scoffed. “It’s rubbish. Memories don’t leave marks on anything. They’re just—just thoughts—they’re just thoughts in your mind. No offence,” he said to Lovegood, who smiled at him.

“But Draco,” Harry said. “Doesn’t it make sense? The more memories we erase, the worse you get.”

“That’s because he hasn’t forgotten,” Lovegood said. “His mind hasn’t, and neither has his body…And it’s all the same, isn’t it? I don’t think you can separate one from the other…”

“I _have_ forgotten,” Draco insisted. “There might be times where—where I can almost remember, maybe, where I can get the gist of it if I really concentrate—but I’ve forgotten.”

“You’ve forgotten,” she said agreeably. “But there’s no such thing as erasing. Not really. When you think of everything that makes up the world, erasures are just as much a part of it. Attempts at erasing…attempts to change the past…those are all a part of the world, too.”

It was, as far as Draco was concerned, absolute nonsense, but Harry was regarding Lovegood as seriously as if she were McGonagall lecturing them on Transfiguration. “So how do we fix it, Luna? If it’s the repressed memories causing him problems, what do we do?”

“Well.” She took a moment to ponder his question, and then said, “You’ll have to remember again. And then work through them. That’s what my father did.”

“How can I remember something I’ve forgotten?” Draco asked impatiently. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s not,” Harry said in a quiet voice. “I have the memories. I can give them back to you.”

Draco gaped at him, aghast. “No. No. I don’t _want_ them back. And what if it—do you think—will it bring back my Mark?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I don’t know.”

Lovegood seemed wholly unbothered by their discussion. She was back to surveying the branches as they swayed in the wind.

“Luna, you said Draco needs to work through the memories. But what does that mean?”

She shrugged. “That’s what my father did, with the Healer. He had to go through them, one by one…talk about what happened, how it affected him…and then he accepted it.”

“Absolutely not,” Draco said. When Harry frowned at him, he doubled down. “No. I won’t.” It was difficult enough to go through his memories with the promise that they would be promptly erased; to have to _talk_ to someone, some stranger that he didn’t even know, and then pick the memories apart, and then somehow _accept_ them…It was torture, plain and simple.

“Draco,” Harry sighed. “What if it makes you better? Don’t you want to feel better?”

“He’s scared,” Lovegood said kindly. “He’s scared of being hurt.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Harry spoke first: “I know he’s scared. But this isn’t any better.”

“You’ll get there, Draco,” she said. She reached out and patted his knee. “You’re a good person. Just misguided. And you’re very angry, too. But you can work on that with a Healer. My father did. And he’s very normal and well-adjusted now.”

Harry ducked his head; Draco would have sworn he was laughing.

Draco didn’t know how to respond to her. Eventually, he said, “Thank you.”

“We’ll let you go, Luna,” Harry said. “It’s late. But thanks for this. I hope you have a good holiday.”

They walked back to the castle together. Lovegood pointed out the constellations as they went, identifying several Draco had never heard of. Privately, he doubted whether they existed at all, but Harry seemed happy to listen, nodding as she traced them in the sky. When they arrived at the entrance hall, Draco stood off to the side as Harry and Lovegood bid each other goodnight. Then, without warning, she enveloped him in a hug. She smelled like peppermint.

“You’ll be okay, Draco,” she said. “You have Harry with you.”

“Right. Thank you.” Draco felt as though he should say something else, but nothing came to mind. Finally, he said, “Your commentary. At the Quidditch match. It was very good.”

“Oh.” She blinked at him in surprise. “I wasn’t sure why they asked me again. I thought I was dreadful, last time.”

“Er, no,” he lied. “My friend…he really enjoyed it.”

Lovegood gave him a grateful smile and then climbed up the marble staircase. As they watched her go, Harry said quietly, “It was me who suggested her to McGonagall. After everything that happened last year, I thought we could all use a laugh.”

It was very difficult to keep a straight face as Lovegood waved to them one last time.

***

“I’m going to miss you, Draco!” His vision was clouded by a mass of black hair as Pansy crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck.

“It’s only a few days,” he grumbled, but she didn’t seem to hear him over her wailing.

“Try to get some work done while we’re gone! I’ve made you a timetable for revision, just check my desk—and try not to stay up all night—try to get some rest while you can, next term is going to be _mad_ , you need to sleep—”

“I think he can manage,” Blaise said drily, dragging her away. “He’s not twelve, Pansy.”

“You’re _sure_ you don’t want to come with us?” Pansy said. To Draco’s horror, her brown eyes were filled with tears.

“Positive,” he said firmly. “You two have a nice holiday. And look out for an owl, with your gifts.”

He stuck his hands in his pockets to brace against the cold as Pansy and Blaise boarded the train. It felt odd, not to be going with them. But he was also relieved. He had made his decision. A decision for himself, and no one else. Long after the Hogwarts Express had disappeared, he stood there, contemplating its departure. He only retreated back to the castle once the sharp nip of cold became unbearable. After the bustle of the station—the students shouting goodbye, the cats hissing and spitting, the sharp train whistle—the empty grounds were startlingly quiet. Someone had cleared the path; thick mounds of snow rose up on each side. The lake was in turmoil as the wind skittered across the water, peeling up waves and pushing them back into deep troughs. This would be, he realized, his last winter at Hogwarts. He felt a curious wrench of bittersweet nostalgia for a moment he was presently living.

Draco eventually made his way to the greenhouses. By the time he arrived, the sun was beginning to slip back under the horizon. Greenhouse One was vacant; the door creaked as he pushed through. Somewhere, a wind chime rang. The glass ceiling was covered with vines, casting strange shadows and unexpected arcs of light. All sorts of flowers and plants were nestled deep inside their pots: fat little cactuses, great orchids in an assortment of colours, purple shrivelfig bulbs. Sprout’s desk was strewn with mismatched gloves and a half-spilled bag of soil. In the corner, several sketchbooks were already neatly stacked. Draco set his satchel onto the desk and pulled out Blaise’s and Pansy’s sketchbooks, placing them on top of the others. Then, he withdrew his own. He took a moment to leaf through the pages, pausing to examine some of the sketches. As he did, he recalled the circumstances in which he had drawn them. Thistle—when he had snapped at Blaise and Pansy, ripped off the corner of his drawing, and then stormed off. Bearberry shrubs—when Blaise had first brought up the idea of dating someone who wasn’t a Slytherin or part of their inner circle. Spruce—when he had finally opened up, if ever so slightly, about his complicated relationship with his parents, and with his past.

He closed the sketchbook and slipped it onto the pile. Then, in the muted light of the greenhouse, Draco undid the buttons on his cuff. He pulled up his sleeve, holding it away from his sensitive skin just as Harry usually did for him. His Mark was barely visible. It might have been mistaken for a bruise, or perhaps a splotch of ink, as if he had been writing and his bare arm had rubbed against his parchment. This was the first time he had examined his Mark without Harry, in broad daylight. To his surprise, the nausea didn’t come. The anger didn’t come. Nothing came except a dull sense of regret. Regret for what he had done, and for everything he wished to atone for but couldn’t. But the Mark itself didn’t seize him with the agony he had expected.

Briskly, he yanked down his sleeve and redid his cuff. Shouldering his satchel, Draco took one last look around the greenhouse before heading back outside. Harry was waiting for him in the library, but he didn’t hurry back. At that moment, it felt like they had all the time in the world.

***

Draco refused to fly, but he agreed to watch. It was too late and too dark out to practice with a real Snitch, but they found a bag of golf balls in the broomshed, and—after Harry took ten minutes to explain to Draco what golf was—he sat in the stands and threw them for Harry to catch. That proved too easy, so he began to fling them with magic, laughing as Harry pulled off several stunts as he raced around the pitch.

“Ready?” Draco called. From afar, he could just see Harry giving him a thumbs up. With a tap of his wand, Draco sent the last golf ball flying towards the goal posts. Harry shot down the field, catching the ball just as it began to curve downward. Holding it up victoriously, he came to soar towards the stands where Draco sat.

“That wasn’t bad,” Harry said, grinning. He disembarked and sat next to Draco, rubbing his gloved hands together. “It’s cold. We should go in soon.”

“Is Mr. Dawson coming in the new year?” Draco asked.

“I think so.” Harry propped his feet onto the bench in front of them and began to unlace his Quidditch boots. “I know there are a few other people they’re considering, so we’ll see.”

“You’ll be fine. We’ll practice like this every day.”

“Every day? Even when everyone’s back from their holidays? You won’t be embarrassed, being seen with me?”

Draco scoffed. “You’re the one who should be embarrassed, being seen with a former Death Eater.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry scolded him. “If you keep talking like that, I’ll kiss you right here, where anyone can see.”

“I’ll keep being ridiculous, then,” Draco teased.

“I wouldn’t care, you know,” Harry said, his voice suddenly serious. He abandoned his boots and turned to look Draco in the eye. “If everyone knew. I’ll kiss you in the middle of the entrance hall if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Draco said in a strangled voice. Harry chuckled.

“And what about you?” Harry asked, returning to his laces. “Did you have a chance to ask Slughorn?”

“I wrote him a note,” Draco said, “and left it on his office door.”

“Let me know if he doesn’t answer you in a few days. I’ll go ask.” Before Draco could argue, Harry held up his hand. “I know, I know, you don’t need my help. Try not to see it that way. I’m not helping you, I’m giving myself the opportunity to be the hero again.”

Draco gently bumped their shoulders, grinning. “I suppose that’s alright.”

“Really, though. I hope you apply. Because you’d be brilliant. And I know you don’t want to work at the Ministry…but think about what Luna said. If we sort out your memories, then maybe you won’t be as afraid. You can work through them, with a Healer.”

“No.” At the exasperated look on Harry’s face, he said, “I’d rather snog Weasley than see a Healer for my _mind._ I’m not mad.”

Harry was quiet as he took his trainers off the bench and pulled them on. Finally, as he finished tying the laces, he said, “I’ve seen one.”

Draco stared at him blankly. “You…what?”

Harry shrugged. He had begun to peel off his gloves. “Yeah. Over the summer. I was really angry, and I had something called survivor’s guilt. I was tired of the nightmares.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine Harry—his Harry, Harry Potter, who was so easygoing now, so brave, so unbothered by everything—sitting in a chair at St. Mungo’s as someone sorted through his mind.

“It’s not that bad,” Harry said. “Once you get used to it.”

“And do you still go?”

“Not very often.”

Draco pursed his lips. He knew Harry was trying to convince him, and he didn’t much fancy being convinced.

“You’re not weak just because you need help, Draco,” Harry said. “Do you know how many people helped me to get rid of Voldemort? Every step of the way, I had people helping me.”

“I know that.” And he did. Sort of.

“Look, how about this? I’ll come with you. We’ll go to Pomfrey together, and get you an appointment, and I’ll schedule mine for the same day. I could use a check-in. And then I can take you out for lunch or something.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” Draco asked. “That you’ve seen a Healer?”

“Well…” Harry placed his gloves on the bench next to him. He sat back and looked out at the field. “I sort of forgot, really. It mostly happened over the summer. And I thought…” He took a deep breath, and then said, “After the Battle, Pomfrey brought it up with us. She’s the one who said we should go, since we’d been through, you know…really awful things.”

“‘We?’” Draco asked. “Who is ‘we?’”

“Er…I probably shouldn’t say. It’s supposed to be private. But the point is…she offered to make appointments for everyone. So I just figured…er…”

“That she must have spoken to me, too,” Draco said dully. “That she must have offered to make me an appointment.”

“Yeah.”

“As a Death Eater, I don’t think I was at the top of her priorities.”

“It’s not fair,” Harry insisted. “You were the same age as us—you were a _student._ You’d been through just as much.”

“Yes, well, that’s how it goes. I don’t know what you expected.”

“Better, I guess,” Harry muttered. “I expected better.”

“It’s fine. Don’t be upset.”

“Will you go, then?” he asked. “If I go?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly. “Before that, we’ll need to sort out what to do with my memories. Because if I’ve forgotten everything, there won’t be much point in seeing a Healer, will there?”

“You agree, then. You think Luna’s right.”

Draco picked up one of Harry’s gloves and fiddled with it. The worn leather reminded him sharply of his own days as a Seeker. “I don’t know what I think.”

“You’re afraid the Mark will come back.”

Draco looked up at Harry, frowning. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I’m afraid that if everything comes back, I’ll be changed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…I mean this,” Draco said, nodding at the space between them. “The Mark—it’s like it was a _part_ of me, a part of him inside of me. And it’s funny, don’t you think, that once the Mark went away, we managed to—I managed to—to do this. With you.” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “But what if it goes away, when the Mark comes back?”

“Your Mark isn’t completely gone, though,” Harry said. “And we still managed.”

“I know that. But still. It’s nearly gone. I’m worried that I’ve become _better_ , with the Mark gone, and that if it comes back…you won’t…we won’t…”

“Draco. Can I touch you?” When Draco nodded, Harry reached out and pried the glove from his hand. He set it aside, and then turned to take both of Draco’s hands in his. “That won’t happen. The Mark was never a part of you. Even when Voldemort was alive, you _chose_ to save me. Remember?”

“I’m _happy_ ,” Draco blurted out. “For the first time in forever, I’m happy. Actually happy. It’s a weird, fucked up happiness, because I’m still anxious and having flashbacks and everything else. But I’m happy.”

“I know. And that won’t stop.”

“But what if it does? What if the Mark comes back, and then all the progress I’ve made—with you, with my parents, with my marks—it all just goes away?”

“That won’t happen,” Harry said. “You just need to trust.”

“I do,” Draco said. “I do trust you.”

Harry shook his head, smiling. “Don’t trust me. Trust yourself.”

He swallowed thickly, looking down at where his delicate hands rested in Harry’s.

“Just think about it for now. You don’t need to decide today. I’ll have to figure out where we can get a Pensieve, anyway.”

Slowly, Draco, said, “I know where we can get one. Severus’ Pensieve. My parents inherited it. It’s at the Manor, in my father’s study.”

“Okay. Well…” Harry shrugged. “Still, think about it. Take your time.”

Draco felt his chest constrict in fear. He had spent years pushing everything away, shoving every unpleasant thought and agonizing memory under the rugs littered about his mind until there was nothing left to spook him. The thought of remembering, of going through those memories bit by bit, went against every survival instinct he had.

“The memories,” he said. “The ones I’ve forgotten. Are they bad? Is it going to be awful, remembering?”

Very gently, Harry reached up and pushed the hair from Draco’s face. “They’re not nice,” Harry admitted. “It won’t be great. But you can do it. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Draco closed his eyes, focusing on Harry’s fingers as they tucked a strand of hair behind his ear before going on to graze down his neck. Finally, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay.”

Harry smiled. “Okay,” he echoed back.

***

Harry, it turned out, had a knack for wrapping presents. Granger had left them with a colorful assortment of bows, ribbons, and paper. They spent what was, on the whole, a very enjoyable afternoon in the Gryffindor common room, wrapping gifts and drinking hot cocoa. For Weasley, Harry had picked out several bright Cannons shirts, each one louder and more obnoxious than the last, along with a box full of sweets from Honeydukes. Granger was to receive a more subdued present—a thick book on Arithmancy, signed by one of her favourite authors. They pretended to scuffle as Draco nearly pulled his gift for Harry out of his satchel and Harry tried to reach for it, which ended up with both of them on the sofa and Draco in Harry’s lap. He had just convinced Harry to unbutton most of his shirt, and had nearly summoned up the courage to try to pull off Harry’s jumper, when there came a sharp tapping sound at the window.

Hoping that Harry wouldn’t hear, Draco bit down on his bottom lip, earning himself a gasp. Harry rested his head back on the sofa, eyes unfocused. Sounding almost drunk, he said, “I think I could kiss you forever.”

Draco sniggered. He leaned forward and trailed his lips across Harry’s jaw, reveling in the rough brush of stubble. Harry’s hands traveled down his chest, past his stomach, and then grazed across the front of his trousers. Draco groaned into Harry’s neck. He wanted to ask for more—he needed the friction, he desperately needed it—but the tapping noise was back again.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, drawing his hands away.

“Nothing,” he murmured. He took Harry’s hands and brought them back to his chest, laying his palms flat. But the tapping was incessant.

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco snarled as he pulled away. Through the window, he could just make out an owl. “Next time, we go to the Slytherin common room. No bloody owls underwater.”

Harry laughed as Draco climbed out of his lap. “It’s probably Ron’s owl, here for their presents.”

“Stupid bird,” Draco spat. He crossed over to the window, and then froze. It wasn’t Weasley’s owl glowering at him through the glass, but his mother’s.

“Draco?” Harry called, craning to look at him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly. Pursing his lips, he wrenched open the window, allowing the eagle owl to hop in. It hooted imperiously at him.

“That’s not Pig,” Harry said.

Draco grimaced as he reached for the owl’s leg; its sharp beak hovered close to his hands. “Who the hell is Pig?”

“Ron’s owl.”

“Why is his owl called _Pig_? Ow!” Draco drew his hand away as the owl pecked at him. “What’s your problem?”

“Do you need help?” Harry asked, jumping up from the sofa.

“No, it’s fine,” he growled. “It’s my mother’s stupid owl. It doesn’t like me, because I never return her letters…” Finally, he ripped the parchment from its leg. “Go on, then! Go to the Owlery!”

The owl hooted at him angrily before shuffling across the windowsill and soaring out into the night. Draco rubbed absently at the sore spot on his hand where it had nipped him. Irritated, he pushed past Harry and threw himself onto the sofa, staring moodily at the letter in his hands. Harry, who had the look of someone hoping not to detonate a bomb, came to sit next to him.

“Are you going to open that?” he asked, indicating the scroll of parchment.

“Here.” Draco passed it to Harry. “You read it.”

As Harry unfurled the scroll, Draco crossed his arms and stared into the fire. He felt as though all of the warmth had been sucked out of the room. Harry paused for a moment, and then read aloud: “ _Dear Draco…I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing to ask you one more time to consider joining me for Christmas Eve at the Manor. It would mean a great deal to me to be able to open presents with you. We don’t need to discuss your father. Please write back, and I can arrange everything. I love you._ ”

There was an awkward silence as Harry folded the parchment. Eventually, he said, “Why does she write that like? So formally?”

Draco snorted. “Because she’s angry.”

“Why is she angry?”

“Because I haven’t written her back in months,” he said. “Because I won’t go to Azkaban with her. Because I refuse to stay at the Manor for Christmas. There are other reasons, I’m sure.”

“We can go, if you want,” Harry said. “We can open presents with your mother, and then stay at the Manor overnight.”

Draco turned to look at Harry, unsure if he had heard properly. “You must be joking.”

“Why? The Pensieve is there, isn’t it? And you haven’t seen her in a while. It could be nice.”

“Nice,” Draco repeated. He was baffled. “You think staying at the Manor, where your friend was _tortured_ , where Voldemort based his _headquarters_ for years, could be _nice._ ”

“It’s where you grew up, isn’t it?” Harry asked. “It’s only for one night. Your mother’s not going to murder me on the spot.”

“When she finds out what’s going on with us, she might,” he muttered.

“Do they…know? That you like blokes?”

Draco rested his head back on the sofa, sighing. “I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know what they know and don’t know.”

“You think they’ll be angry?”

“I don’t know. And what will your friends say, when they find out? Your Weasleys?”

“I think Hermione and Ron already know,” he said. “And as for everyone else…they’ll be cross. But they’ll get over it. They have no choice.”

“Why?” Draco scoffed. “Because you’re the Chose One?”

“No.” Harry frowned. “Because they love me.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Right. Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, we are _not_ staying at the Manor. Absolutely not.”

“Okay.”

“You have no idea how awkward it would be. And there’s a dinner tonight—this stupid dinner they put on for all the pure-bloods. Well, they don’t _say_ it’s for the pure-bloods anymore, but it is. For the Sacred Twenty-Eight, all that rubbish. And we aren’t going.”

“Okay.”

“And then we’ll sleep—where? My bedroom? Oh, that would be great, wouldn’t it? Spend the night in that room where I heard awful, just awful things. No.”

“Okay.”

“And then there’s my mother. She says she won’t try to convince me to go to Azkaban, but she will. You don’t know her. She’s unbelievably meddlesome. She can never just be happy.”

“Draco,” Harry said. “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?”

“I don’t _need_ to see my mother at Christmas,” he went on. He sounded rather hysterical. “In my second year, they went on a trip to Peru. I stayed here. It was nice.”

“Okay. Sure.”

Draco leaned forward and rested his head in his palms. “This is so stupid. I’m being ridiculous.”

“Draco.” Harry slid towards him. “Whatever you decide is fine. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “I really don’t know.”

“Can I touch you?”

“Fine.”

At once, he felt Harry’s hand on his back, drawing little circles through the thin material of his uniform shirt. “Why don’t we go now? We can get it over with. Or you can go by yourself, if you want. And I’ll wait here.”

“I’m not going without you,” Draco said flatly. “And anyway, she won’t be home until later. She’s at that stupid dinner.”

“So why don’t we go to the dinner?”

Draco sat up to ogle him. “You’ve really lost the plot, haven’t you?”

Harry chuckled. “Why? It’s a dinner party. What’s the worst that could happen? Your friends are there, aren’t they?”

“Yes. All the more reason not to go.”

“Don’t be like that,” Harry reasoned. “It’s Christmas. Let’s go, just for a bit. You’ll have fun.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”

“ _You_ don’t have anything to wear.”

“I have dress robes. I’ll manage. Come on. You can see your friends.”

Draco sat back and began to button up his shirt. The fire was crackling away merrily, Harry’s hand was resting on his back, and it was so _peaceful_ , so _comfortable_ in the common room. It would be so easy to stay there and to climb back into Harry’s lap. He gave a defeated sigh. “We’re going to do this, aren’t we?”

Harry grinned at him.

“But everything will have to change, then. I’ll have to owl Pansy and Blaise, and tell them not to send my presents here.”

“Can’t we just open them tomorrow morning?” Harry asked.

Draco sniffed. “No. I’ve _always_ opened my presents Christmas eve. It’s a Malfoy tradition.” Harry ducked his head, and Draco suspected he might be laughing at him, but he continued on: “We’ll need to pack. And I can guarantee my mother won’t let us go first thing in the morning—you’ll see. First, she’ll want us to stay for breakfast. Then, she’ll bring out the photo albums. She does that every single time I have friends over. Then, she’ll want to show us some new piece of furniture she’s bought, or some new painting. We won’t be back until dinner.”

“That’s fine,” Harry said. “But we’ll have to stop at the kitchens, first. So I can give Winky and Kreacher their presents.”

“Oh. Er. Right.” Draco looked away in embarrassment; he hadn’t thought to buy them anything.

Sensing his discomfort, Harry said, “It’s fine. They won’t mind.”

“No, I’ll…I’ll find something.”

“I should go pack, then?” Harry asked. He seemed rather excited as he stood up and stretched. “We’ll meet in the entrance hall at six?”

“We’ll have to Floo to Blaise’s,” Draco said. “What a pain in the arse. Forget it, just forget it. This isn’t worth it.”

“Owl him and let him know we’re coming,” Harry said. “We’ll Floo in from the Hog’s Head. Tell him to make sure the network’s open.”

Draco stared up at Harry. “Why are we doing this?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “Because I can never just have a quiet, boring life? I don’t know. Come on, go write Blaise and then pack. Or we’ll be late.”

***

Draco couldn’t help the little flurries of excitement that shot through him as he raced around his dormitory. He pulled on the first dress robes he could find—plain, black, austere—and packed an overnight bag. His mother’s owl had still been lurking in the Owlery. It had, Draco noted, been decidedly less hostile when he explained that he needed to send a letter because he would be staying at the Manor for Christmas. Blaise didn’t live far from Hogwarts; the owl would almost certainly arrive before they did. After closing and locking his trunk, Draco slipped into Pansy’s room and rifled through her endless array of scarves. He settled on a filmy, navy blue one that he hoped she wouldn’t miss. Then, levitating his bag behind him, he hurried up to the entrance hall, where Harry stood waiting for him.

“Did you send along your presents?” Draco asked. With a flick of his wand, he set down his trunk.

“Yeah, Pig showed up,” Harry said. He was dressed in his winter cloak, waiting next to his suitcase. “And I used a school owl for everyone else’s.”

Draco peered inside the empty Great Hall. Soon, it would fill up for dinner. The hall looked magnificent as ever, with snowflakes fluttering down onto the single large table and the usual twelve Christmas trees gleaming in the soft light. He was almost sad to be missing it. “Should we tell someone we’re going?” he asked.

“Already took care of it,” Harry said. “I told McGonagall we’ll be back tomorrow.”

Draco froze. “You told McGonagall. That you’re going to the Manor.”

“I told her we’re going to a Christmas party,” he said. “We’re of age, aren’t we?” He had that defiant look on his face that Draco had come to know so well; it did funny things to him, and in that moment he would have given anything to cross the entrance hall and kiss Harry and perhaps drag him back to his dormitory. Instead, he smiled tightly and sent his trunk to hovering mid-air again.

“The kitchens first, then?” Draco asked. Harry beamed at him.

Kreacher and Winky were delighted to see them. They refused to let them go without first stuffing their trunks full of sweets. Harry presented Kreacher with a new pair of oven mitts; they came up to his shoulders, but he seemed very happy. Winky, meanwhile, was ecstatic with her gift of a little blue brooch. She pinned it proudly to her shirt.

“And here, Winky,” Draco said, pulling out Pansy’s scarf from his pocket. “I didn’t have time to wrap it, but it’ll match your uniform, I thought, and now your brooch.”

Winky squealed with excitement, wrapping the scarf around her neck so tightly that Draco feared she might suffocate.

“Kreacher, er…” Draco felt a bit awkward as he fished around in his other pocket. “It’s not, er, it’s not exactly new, I’m afraid…but…” Not knowing what else to say, he held out his hand.

“What is this, Master Draco?” Kreacher asked, coming closer. Slowly, he took the ring out of Draco’s palm and examined it. Upon spotting the crest, he gave a little yelp and stared up at Draco with watery eyes.

“It’s, er, it’s just an old ring,” he said, feeling very uncomfortable. “It belonged to my mother.”

Kreacher dissolved into tears as he placed the ring on his finger. It was far too large.

“Here, Kreacher,” Harry said kindly, “let me resize it for you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Draco cautioned. “You don’t know what kind of magic they’ve put on it. Maybe…er…a chain? I’ll bring you a chain, Kreacher, and then you can wear it around your neck?”

Kreacher began to sob. Alarmed, Draco glanced over at Harry, who shrugged and grinned. It took them even longer this time to escape the kitchens—Kreacher thanked Draco profusely, turning the little ring every which way and then cradling it against his chest. Finally, they made it back to the entrance hall. Despite himself, Draco felt rather pleased.

They made it to Hogsmeade in record time. Harry peppered Draco with all sorts of questions—who went to these dinners, what did they usually serve, why did they open presents Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day, how should they behave? Draco answered as best he could, well aware that Harry was trying to distract him from his apprehension. He appreciated the effort.

The Hog’s Head was as dim and shabby as he remembered. Harry spoke quietly to the barman, who led them to a little room and shut the door behind them. It was draughty; the only warmth came from the little fire struggling to stay alive in the grate. Draco shrunk into his cloak as he looked around at the bare brick walls and the shuttered windows. He was starting to have second thoughts, and Harry must have known, because he gave him a reassuring smile as he took the little bowl of Floo powder off the mantle.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked as he gathered a fistful of powder.

“Just say Blaise Zabini’s. That’s how I always get there.” Draco hesitated. “You’re _sure_ you want to do this? Because we can go back. I won’t mind. You won’t hurt my feelings. These dinners _aren’t_ fun, I’m warning you now. Everyone is old and miserable and nosy, and they play music that might have been popular sixty years ago, and—”

“Draco.” Harry nodded down at the bowl. “I’m sure. Go on. I’ll see you there.”

Before Draco could answer, Harry pushed the bowl of Floo powder into his hands, picked up his trunk, and then walked over to the grate. He tossed the powder into the fire—the flames leapt to life, flashing bright green. Harry stepped in, dragging his bag after him, and said clearly: “Blaise Zabini’s.” At once, he was gone.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Draco stepped forward. Harry was mad. Suppose this was all a trap? Suppose Draco had been deceiving him this entire time? It was a miracle he had managed to survive long enough to kill Voldemort. Quelling down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, Draco took a deep, steadying breath, and then slipped his fingers through the soft powder. He set the bowl back onto the mantle, and then gathered his trunk.

 _‘You can do it,’_ he urged himself.

Before he could change his mind, Draco threw the powder into the fire. Again, the flames burst into emerald green, licking the top of the grate. With one last glance around the room, Draco stepped into the fireplace, and called, “Blaise Zabini’s!”

***

At first, Draco thought they must have gotten out at the wrong grate. Harry stumbled before him, and he reached out to steady him, pulling along his trunk as he pitched forward. The dining room didn’t resemble Blaise’s at all—it was much larger than Draco remembered, and much brighter: the white marble floors gleamed under the light of several chandeliers, while the windows must surely have been enchanted to show twinkling stars covering the night sky. It was quite crowded—compared to the sea of black robes he was used to at Hogwarts, Draco was taken aback by the melange of different colours as people milled around, sipping on wine, eating little hors d’oeuvres. Before Draco had a chance to dust himself off, someone barrelled into him, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“ _Draco!_ Draco, I knew you would come! _I knew it!_ You wouldn’t believe how excited we were when we got your owl! And you’ve brought Harry, too, oh, I’m so excited…”

She finally let go of Draco only to squeeze Harry just as tightly. Dazed, Draco tried to ignore the people who had turned to stare at them. There were the Flints…the Fawleys…a few distant Black relatives…Draco’s stomach curled up in fear. His apprehension was only somewhat relieved by the sight of Blaise striding towards them, dressed in elegant green robes, a rare smile on his face.

“Pansy,” he sneered, “let him _breathe_ for a second, my God.”

“I’m just so excited!” Pansy drew away and fanned her face. She was nearly as red as her robes. “We have your presents here, but you’ll be opening them at the Manor, won’t you? Draco, your mother’s in the sitting room—she’ll be here any moment—you’re only just in time for dinner—have you told her that Harry’s going with you to the Manor?” Eyes widening, she said in a very loud whisper, “Does she _know_ about you two?”

“Alright,” Blaise sighed. “That’s enough champagne for you.” Addressing Harry and Draco, he said, “Someone will take your trunks, just leave them here with your cloaks. I’ll be back.” He grimaced. “We have to help my mother in the kitchen. Someone’s put sugar in the soup instead of salt.”

With Blaise gone, Pansy leaned towards Draco and said, “Don’t mention Whitby to him. He wasn’t able to come—he’s visiting his nan in Sussex.” And with that she flashed them a bright smile and sauntered off.

“Well.” Draco turned to Harry, who had a little smile on his face, as though he found this all rather funny. “We’re here.”

“We’re here,” Harry agreed. He began to unbutton his cloak.

“Everyone’s staring,” Draco grumbled, and it was true: the dining hall had filled with whispers as people craned to have a look at them.

“It’s because of me,” Harry said carelessly. “But I don’t mind. I’m used to it.”

“I don’t think people expected you to come here of all places for Christmas Eve,” Draco said. He shrugged off his cloak and folded it on top of his trunk.

It was very hot, and very crowded, and Draco felt ill at ease as he tried to pretend that he wasn’t being stared at. Still, he couldn’t help but watch as Harry pulled off his cloak to reveal a simple set of black and white dress robes. His stomach clenched almost painfully. He was sure his reaction must be written all over his face, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.

“You…” Draco forced himself to swallow. “You look good.”

“Oh.” Harry grinned at him. “I’m glad I had these. I don’t know if they’re fancy enough for this, but…”

“No. They’re perfect.”

Harry looked him up and down, as though unaware, or unbothered, by everyone else in the room. “Should we go, then?” Harry asked. His voice was several decibels lower. “Meet some people?”

Fortunately, there were many people to meet: Daphne was there, eager to draw him into a long hug. She didn’t seem surprised at all to see Harry. She simply hugged him as well, asking which N.E.W.T.s he was sitting and whether Granger and Weasley had returned to Hogwarts as well. And then they were pulled aside by the Fawleys, who shook Harry’s hand profusely and asked about his plans after Hogwarts. By the time they had managed to drag themselves away, Blaise’s mother was calling for dinner.

“To the sides, please, to the sides!” she said, sounding harassed as she held up her wand. She was wearing a magnificent robe of purple and gold, and atop her head sat one of the largest, most extravagant hats Draco had ever seen. As they scattered, she gave a sharp flick of her wand, and a dozen round tables swooped out from the pantry and onto the dining room floor. A suite of chairs trailed after, arranging themselves around the tables. Finally, pristine white tablecloths fluttered out of the pantry and onto the tables, along with red and green candles. With one last swish, Mrs. Zabini set them all alight. “Sit where you like!” she said. “Dinner will begin shortly.”

“Come on,” Draco said, leading Harry to a table near the back of the room. In the crowd, he had just seen a flash of blonde hair.

They pushed through as politely as they could, excusing themselves as they went. Finally, they reached the last table, where Draco’s mother sat as though waiting for them. He nearly sagged with relief: she didn’t look as poorly as Draco had expected. She was thin, yes, and her face was still pinched with sadness, but she wasn’t nearly as gaunt as she had been over the summer. In fact, as she rose to greet them, Draco realized that for the first time in years, her smile reached her eyes.

“Draco,” she said as they approached. She was dressed in swaths of silver fabric that pooled around her feet. “I’m so glad you made it.” She pulled him into a hug, and he couldn’t help but tense. At least she hadn’t cried.

As Draco drew away, he gestured towards Harry, who was standing back. “I’ve brought Harry,” he said, as though it hadn’t been obvious. “He’ll be coming to the Manor.” He was careful to ensure that he spoke it as a statement, not a question.

To Draco’s relief, his mother gave Harry a little smile. “I’ll be delighted. Any friend of Draco’s is a friend of ours. Please, let’s sit.”

Now came the real trouble—what would they talk about for an entire evening? But the problem was solved as Theo and Lavender squeezed through the crowd, looking breathless and very pink.

“Draco!” Theo called. “Mrs. Malfoy! And…and Harry!” He was clearly surprised to see Harry there, but Lavender pushed past him, coming to give Harry a hug.

“It’s so nice to see you!” she said. “Are these chairs free?”

“They are,” Harry said, shuffling to make room.

Lavender introduced herself to Draco’s mother, who smiled politely and shook her hand. As they settled in, Theo looked around the room, grinning. “Mrs. Zabini isn’t happy, is she? She’s been stressed all month.”

“I think it looks lovely,” Lavender said. Her eyes were trained on the enormous Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “I’ve never been to anything like this before.”

“We’re going to my parents’ afterwards,” Theo informed them. He brought his arm to rest around Lavender’s chair. “And then Lav’s tomorrow, for Christmas morning.”

They heard Pansy before they saw her—she was tugging her parents towards their table. Mr. Parkinson looked as irritable as ever, his little black moustache twitching as he frowned, while Mrs. Parkinson readjusted her pink, feathered hat. Suddenly, Draco had an idea. As his mother stood to greet the Parkinsons, he leaned towards Harry.

“Could you do me a favour?” he asked.

“Anything.”

Draco smiled. “Could you put in a good word for Pansy? Her parents have been on her ever since…ever since the Battle. When she said…”

“Oh.” Harry peered over at them. “But she apologized. And I told her it’s fine.”

“I know, but they’re still angry. And now they’re on her case about a bunch of other rubbish, like only sitting four N.E.W.T.s. Please? It’ll be my Christmas gift.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ll do it, but this isn’t your Christmas gift, you prat.”

The Parkinsons came forward to hug Draco and Theo, and to introduce themselves to Lavender and Harry. Of course, they fawned over Harry, assuring him that they had believed him from the start and that they had always been behind him. Harry, to Draco’s relief, smiled graciously enough, accepting their compliments before suggesting that they all sit. As everyone took their seats, Draco looked around the table. This was perhaps one of the oddest assortments of people he had ever been a part of.

“Mummy, daddy,” Pansy said, still sounding short of breath, “do you remember me telling you about Lavender Brown? She works at the Ministry, with Theo.”

“I do remember,” Mrs. Parkinson said in her clipped voice.

“Pansy helped me pick out these dress robes,” Lavender said. She looked, Draco thought, very pretty in the blue sweeps of fabric. “At Twilfitt and Tatting’s.”

“I’ve always liked Twilfitt’s,” Draco’s mother said. She took a little sip of wine before adding, “Those dress robes are very nice, Lavender.”

Draco stared at his mother. He couldn’t discern whether she was being polite simply to avoid spoiling Mrs. Zabini’s dinner, or because she wanted to watch her step around Harry. Regardless, he was grateful to her.

“Pansy,” Harry said suddenly. They all turned to stare at him. Unaffected, he said, “Thanks for your help in Transfiguration. I think I ended up doing alright on the test, in the end.”

“What?” Pansy asked. She glanced between him and Draco. “Your test?”

“That’s right,” Harry said, smiling brightly at her. “My Transfiguration test. The one you helped me study for all term.” Addressing her parents, he said, “Pansy’s brilliant at Transfiguration. It was so nice of her to help me. I know she’s pretty busy, since she’s taken all of the most difficult subjects this year. But I appreciate it.”

Mr. Parkinson looked as though he had been slapped. He only blinked once little menus appeared on the table in front of them. Finally, he said, “Yes. Well. Pansy’s always had a gift for spellwork, I’ve said it myself.”

“Has she?” asked Mrs. Parkinson. She seemed very confused.

“Pansy’s always been a clever girl,” Draco’s mother said mildly as she picked up her menu. “Oh, good, they have salmon, I wanted something light.”

As the table began to discuss which dishes they should order for dinner, Draco whispered to Harry, “That was a bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

Harry shrugged, grinning. “Are you having the chicken or the beef?”

***

All in all, dinner went as smoothly as it could have. There were a few tense moments when Mr. Parkinson inquired after Theo’s father, and again when Draco’s mother asked why the Yaxleys weren’t there. But, overall, everyone seemed to be on their best behaviour. Harry was quiet as he listened to the conversation, occasionally leaning over to speak with Lavender. Twice, he checked in with Draco, squeezing his knee and catching his eye. When Draco nodded and smiled, Harry would smile back before returning to his meal.

By the time Mrs. Zabini had cleared the tables for dancing, Draco was very full and very tired. They stood in a corner as the lights dimmed and the Christmas tree sparkled to life. The noise in the room had settled to a faint buzz, but Draco was starting to feel restless. The beginnings of a headache were making themselves known around his temples; anxiety and dread trickled through him, slowly at first, but gradually picking up as he became less confident in his ability to ignore the relentless stares. His Mark had startled to prickle. He was terrified of having another flashback, here of all places.

“You don’t want to dance, do you?” he whispered to Harry.

Harry shrugged. “Not really.” Eyes narrowing with concern, he asked, “Are you okay? You’re pale. Do you want to sit down?”

“No.” Draco looked over at his mother, who was talking with her friends. “I think I want to go. Is that alright?”

“Of course it’s alright.”

They walked over to Draco’s mother, who turned to greet them. “Everything alright, dear?”

“I’m a bit tired,” he said in a low voice, praying her friends wouldn’t hear. “I thought we could go home.”

“What?” His mother frowned. “But that would be so rude, Draco. We’ve only just finished dinner. There’s still Christmas pudding, and dancing—”

“Please,” Draco cut in. “I’m tired. Blaise won’t mind.”

His mother looked over at Harry, whose face was politely neutral. She sighed. “Very well. Go say your goodbyes, and then meet me by the grate.”

As they set off in search of his friends, Draco muttered, “My mother takes ages to leave, anyway. So we could be waiting until after midnight before she finally says goodbye.”

They eventually found Blaise, Pansy, Theo, and Lavender in the loo, drinking from a wine bottle.

“Have some,” Pansy said, holding up the bottle to him. She had squeezed herself in-between the sink and the wall, in what Draco thought was a rather ridiculous position.

“I’m fine,” he said, waving her away. “We came to say goodbye, anyway. We’re headed back to the Manor.”

“What!” Pansy leapt up; the wine sloshed ominously in the bottle. “But you can’t leave! You need to help us finish this!”

“You’ll manage on your own,” Draco assured her. “I want to spend some time with my mother, you know. I haven’t seen her in a while.”

That wasn’t technically true, and he felt a twinge of guilt for lying, but it seemed to do the trick. Pansy heaved a heavy sigh and then pulled him in for a hug. “I understand,” she said. “We’ll see you after the holidays, then.”

Theo and Lavender stood up to hug them goodbye. Even Blaise, who appeared to be quite drunk, pulled himself to his feet and clasped their hands. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I know my mother will be happy. She’s been in a right mood ever since that idiot broke things off with her…”

“Your presents!” Pansy suddenly shrieked. “Come on, let’s go to the kitchen, your presents are in there.”

She dragged them down the hall and into the kitchen, where a group of house-elves in white, starched uniforms were in a frenzy whipping up dessert. They scurried every which way while one of them—the head chef, Draco thought, as he wore a toque blanche—squeaked out orders.

“Draco and Harry are leaving, mum,” Blaise called to his mother, who was tasting a meringue. She looked over at them distractedly.

“Yes, of course, thank you for coming, dears,” she said, waving before returning to the bowl.

Pansy retrieved two wrapped presents from inside a cupboard. As she pushed them into Draco’s hands, she gave a little gasp. “Harry, I’m so sorry!” she said. “I never thought—we didn’t think we’d see you—it slipped our minds, to get you something—”

“That’s alright,” Harry said hastily. Like Draco, he must have been fearful that she would start crying.

“What you said at dinner—to my parents—that meant a lot. You didn’t have to. I’m rubbish at Transfiguration.”

“We’re aware,” Draco said drily. “Don’t cry, come on. It’s Christmas.” He gave her a one-armed hug as her face turned red and her eyes watered.

“I _am_ sorry about what I said,” she went on. “I really am. And I think you and Draco, you two together—I—I think it’s wonderful!” Abruptly, she broke down into tears, pulling them in for a tight embrace.

“How much have you had to drink?” Blaise demanded, dragging her away. “Let them go, let them go, for God’s sake, Pansy…Here, help me get their suitcases and cloaks…”

Finally armed with their presents, trunks, and cloaks, Harry and Draco said their goodbyes and then went to stand by the grate. To Draco’s surprise, his mother was already waiting. At the sight of her, his heart started to quake in panic; it was one thing to have dinner together in a crowded room, but quite another to have to face the silence of the Manor together. And he still didn’t know if she planned to scold him, or what she made of his choice to bring Harry along.

“Shall we go, then?” she asked.

Harry, somehow, seemed unphased by the fact that in moments, they were about to step into the Manor. He simply nodded towards the grate, politely motioning for Draco’s mother to go first. As she stepped towards the fireplace and took up the silver bowl full of Floo powder, Harry reached out and squeezed Draco’s hand. He squeezed back.

***

His mother had made a valiant attempt at decorating the Manor for the holidays. Draco wondered if she had done it for herself, or if she had hoped all along that he would join her for Christmas. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was the latter, particularly when he strolled into the sitting room and found the little Christmas tree decorated with his favourite emerald and silver baubles. Stout candles floated above the tree’s branches, illuminating the room well enough that Draco could see the substantial changes his mother had made: gone was the suede sofa, the armchairs, the bookcases. Instead, the room felt airy; along the wall was a sectional, covered with pillows Draco had never seen before. The only other piece of furniture was an ottoman set in front of the sofa. The walls had been painted a soft beige and were covered with family portraits.

“What do you think?” his mother asked as she came in behind him.

“It’s nice,” he said. And it was, particularly in the glow of the Christmas tree.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked, pointing at one of the portraits.

“Ah…that’s…” Draco drew closer, squinting in the dark.

The little blonde boy in the picture had a very serious look on his face. His arms rested on a table in front of him, his back straight as he gazed haughtily into the camera. Once or twice, his eyes shifted to the side, distracted by something out of frame. When he peeked over a third time, he burst into a shy grin.

“That’s me, actually,” Draco said.

“I thought so.” Harry sounded pleased.

“I haven’t seen this picture before.” Draco brought up his fingers to trace the wooden frame. The young Draco in the photograph was back to scowling at the camera—wanting, he knew, to look grown up.

“I found it when I was reorganizing,” his mother said. “Do you remember that day? You wouldn’t smile. You wanted to be serious, like your father. But I got you to laugh.”

“I don’t remember,” he murmured. “I wish I did.”

His mother paused for a moment, and then brought her hand to rest on his shoulder. He couldn’t help but tense and pull away.

“Let’s sit,” she said as though she hadn’t noticed. They settled into the sofa; it was quite springier than their last one. “I think I’ll get us some tea. And I’ll put your trunks upstairs while I’m at it. Would either of you prefer coffee? Something stronger?”

They shook their heads.

She smiled at them and then glided out of the room. The moment she left, Draco sank back into the sofa, letting out a sharp exhale.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked. He shuffled over so that their knees touched.

“Yeah. I’m alright. It’s just odd, being home.” Draco closed his eyes and then settled his hands on his stomach. He breathed in, and then breathed out, focusing on the smell of clean linen that was consistently Harry.

“Do you think your mother minds?” Harry asked quietly. “That I’m here?”

“I don’t know. It’s strange.” Draco pictured his mother’s impassive face. “I thought she’d be angry. I thought she’d at least ask. But she doesn’t really seem to care. Maybe she’s just glad that I’m here, and she figures it’s thanks to you.”

“Maybe Pansy and Blaise already told her,” Harry suggested.

Draco snorted. He wouldn’t put it past them.

“I did talk to her, at the Ministry,” Harry said. At that, Draco opened his eyes. Harry’s expression was thoughtful as he studied the fire in the hearth. “When I testified at her trial, I saw her after. And I thanked her for saving my life. I know she did it for you, to save you…but still. She’s a bit like my mum, isn’t she? They both sacrificed themselves for their sons.”

“Really?” Draco said sourly. “My mother is nothing like yours. Your mother died for you. I bet she did it without thinking. She was so ready to do it that her magic protected you from Voldemort. My parents threw me in with the Death Eaters the first chance they had.”

“That isn’t true,” Harry said quietly. “I’ve seen your memories. Your mother didn’t want you to get the Mark.”

“She shouldn’t have put us in that position, then,” he argued. “She should have known what would happen if he came back. Our mothers couldn’t be more different, Harry. Don’t insult yours by comparing her to mine.”

Harry was quiet as he looked around the drawing room. There were flashes of recognition in his eyes, Draco thought; he remembered this room, even without the chandelier. “I still think she loves you,” Harry said finally. “In a strange sort of way, maybe.”

“I know I shouldn’t complain,” Draco said. “I know that. Because I have parents, and you don’t. So it makes me sound like a spoiled brat to complain.”

“What?” Harry had a puzzled expression on his face, as though he hadn’t quite understood. “I don’t think that at all.”

“Well, I do,” he said flatly. “I feel stupid every time I complain about them to you. But it’s just…it’s so difficult. I don’t understand them. If I had a child, I would do anything I could to protect them. If I thought it was either them or me—either they became a Death Eater, or I died—I would die. I would be glad to.”

He had expected Harry to be uncomfortable, but he turned to face Draco, a sad smile on his face. “I guess so. But I think they realized their mistake, in the end. At the Battle, they just wanted to find you and leave.”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. They did what they did. And it goes back even further—when I was younger, the things they would say, the things _I_ used to say, because I believed them. About pure-bloods and Muggleborns and all that rubbish. You don’t think that’s terrible? To fill your child’s head up with that?”

“It is,” Harry agreed. “It’s horrible.”

“Well, then, there you go,” he said, as though it was settled. It wasn’t, of course; he expected that his complicated feelings towards his parents defied all attempts at being sorted. He loved them and despised them all at once. He feared them, just as he insisted that they had no hold over him. He wanted very much to sit with his mother and drink tea, to enjoy Christmas Eve together, but he also wished he were back at Hogwarts, away from the Manor, away from his mother. He couldn’t understand how these contradictory desires fit together.

“Do you think you’ll ever forgive them?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. Probably not. But you’re going to tell me that I should, right? I should forgive and forget. I should move on. I know it—trust me, I’ve heard it.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Harry reached out and pressed his hand against Draco’s, so that their fingers were just touching. “I was going to say that you don’t need to forgive them. You don’t _need_ to do anything. But one thing my Healer told me is…you can try to accept it.”

“Accept it,” he repeated in a hollow voice.

“Right. I don’t mean accept what they did—because it’s awful, like you said. But accept that it happened. Accept that those are your parents, and no matter what, you can’t change that. You can’t change _them_. All you can do is try to accept that they’re your parents, and that terrible things happened, and that they were terrible, and that it’s unfair that you went through it…but it happened. And we can’t change that.”

Draco blinked at Harry. Finally, he said, “Your Healer told you that?”

“Yeah. That’s the sort of thing they teach you…And it helps.”

“Right.”

There was a soft tinkling of fine china as his mother swept back into the room, hovering a tea set before her. At her feet trailed the presents Draco had stuffed into his trunk.

“You forgot to put your presents under the tree, Draco,” she said. He felt a flash of annoyance at the thought that she had gone through his things without asking, but he told himself to let it go. He didn’t want to start a row.

The assortment of presents skipped towards the tree and came to nestle among the other boxes. His mother set the tea service onto the ottoman, and then resumed her spot on the sofa. “Harry,” she said, “how do you take your tea?”

“Just black,” Draco answered.

Draco winced as his mother glanced over at him, bemused. But she was too polite to say anything—she set out the three cups on their dainty plates and then began to pour. “Black,” she echoed. “Just like Draco takes his.” She paused before passing him his cup. “Unless that’s changed?”

He shook his head and accepted his cup before passing Harry his. It was silent as they drank.

“Well, that’s better,” his mother said as she set down her cup. “Gifts, then, I think?”

Draco felt badly—Harry only had the gift from Draco to open, while he and his mother had large piles to get through. But he didn’t seem bothered. Instead he sat, cross-legged, asking Draco about each person who had gifted him, where they lived, what they did. He was very interested in the broomstick polish Draco received from his father (he suspected that it was his mother who had purchased it, but he kept quiet to preserve the peace). His mother, at any rate, was pleased with his gift to her—a set of goblin-made wineglasses. Most of hers had been shattered while the Manor served as Voldemort’s headquarters.

“This one’s from Blaise,” Harry said, holding out a little box to him.

“Thanks.” Draco pulled apart the blue ribbon and then peeled off the top. There was a vial inside. “What’s this?” he asked, spilling it out onto his palm. “A potion?” On the gilded label was a single word in Latin— _Voluptatem._

“There’s a parchment,” Harry said, peeking inside the box. Draco fished it out. In bold, cursive letters, it read: ‘ _For their pleasure. Our patented design is guaranteed to titillate and enthrall. Anal sex is a wonderful way to enjoy intimacy. To prepare your partner…’_

Mortified beyond belief, Draco shoved the parchment and vial into Harry’s hands. “It’s for you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, confused. “It’s yours. Your name’s on the box.”

“No, no, I’m pretty sure it’s for you,” Draco said. Praying that the dim lighting in the room concealed his burning face, Draco risked a glance over at his mother, who was still inspecting the wineglasses. Whether she was choosing to be tactful, he couldn’t say.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry said, as the realization hit him. “Oh. Right.” A very coy smile emerged on his face as he said, “This is for _me_ , is it?”

“Can you pass me that one from Pansy?” Draco asked, avoiding Harry’s eyes as he pointed to a box beside the ottoman. Harry laughed and handed him the package.

Draco pulled off the pink bow and tore at the paper. A little book fell into his lap.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know…Pansy never gets me books…” Draco turned it around, smoothing his hand over the leather cover. Finally, he opened it—the pages were blank.

“I think it’s a journal,” Draco said. He felt oddly touched.

“I wonder whether it’s one of those charmed ones,” Harry said. “Where only you can read what you’ve written.”

“Maybe.” Carefully, Draco set the journal aside.

“That was very nice of her,” his mother said.

“Here, open my gift,” Draco told Harry, tossing it to him. “It isn’t much, but…you’ll like it.”

Harry tore into the wrapping paper. He grinned as he uncovered a book— _Winging with the Wimbourne Wasps_ , along with several yellow and black pins.

“Harry’s being scouted by the Wasps,” Draco explained to his mother. “As a Seeker.”

“Can I see?” she asked. Harry passed her the book and then set to examining the pins.

“For your friends,” Draco said. “We can wear them to your games.”

They watched as the wasps depicted on each pin buzzed angrily, shooting about.

“And what if I don’t make the team?” Harry teased.

Draco shrugged. “It’s still a good book.” When Harry shoved him playfully, he smirked. “You’ll make the team, you git. You know you will. So you’d better brush up on your history.”

“Open mine, then,” Harry said. He reached into the pocket of his dress robes and pulled out a piece of folded parchment. “He’s not here, but you’ll see when we get back to Hogwarts.”

“‘He?’” Draco asked suspiciously.

“Just look.”

Draco unfolded the bit of paper and saw that it was a receipt. “Eeylops Owl Emporium.” He looked up at Harry. “I don’t understand.”

“I got you an owl,” Harry said, beaming at him. “Only he’s at Hogwarts—he arrived tonight, and I thought it would just confuse him, asking him to come here. I was planning on introducing you two tomorrow morning.”

“An owl,” Draco said, scanning the receipt.

“He hasn’t got a name yet, so you’ll have to sort one out,” Harry continued. “He’s beautiful, though, you’ll see. And he’s huge.”

“Harry,” Draco said. He was embarrassed to find that his voice was hoarse. “You can’t get me an _owl_. It’s too much.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “Your mother’s owl doesn’t seem very fond of you. I’ve seen it biting you in the Great Hall. So I thought this way, you could send your post without having your fingers ripped off.”

“And maybe now, you’ll start to write back,” his mother said in a wry voice.

Draco wanted very much to give Harry a hug, to fall into him, to thank him for a gift that he somehow hadn’t known he needed. It was, he thought, a little slice of independence from his parents. His own owl. But he was uncomfortable being soppy in front of his mother, and so he simply said, in that same raspy voice, “Thank you.” Harry must have understood, because his cheeks coloured and he pressed his fingers very gently against Draco’s, out of view of his mother.

“Well, that leaves my gift for you, Draco,” his mother said. She went to crouch down by the tree and then drew out a little envelope nestled among the branches. Draco’s unease must have shown on his face; as she held it out to him, she scoffed. “It isn’t a letter, if that’s what’s concerning you.”

Draco stopped himself from making a face and took the envelope. His mother came to sit next to him as he opened it. Inside was a thin sheet of parchment; he drew it out and leaned towards the fire to be able to decipher the cramped script.

“This is…” He knew what it was, but he could scarcely believe it. “My trust fund.”

“That’s right,” she said.

Draco looked up at her. “But I’m not supposed to have access until I turn twenty-one.”

His mother shrugged. “Things have changed. Your father and I agreed. You need your independence…To start a new life, if you want.” As he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand. “ _After_ you leave school. That is our condition.”

“Right.” He turned around to look at Harry, who was smiling. “Well. Okay. Thank you.”

“Once you’re finished your N.E.W.T.s, we’ll go to Gringotts and sort everything out.”

“And…father agreed?” Draco asked.

“He did. It was his idea.”

Draco slipped the piece of parchment back into the envelope. “This…Thank you.”

His mother seemed to understand; she rested her hand briefly on his arm, and then rose to her feet. “Would either of you like more tea?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said. Draco shook his head.

“It’s late,” she said. “We should get to bed.” As they began to gather their things, his mother waved her hand. “Leave it, don’t worry. We’ll tidy in the morning.”

That was nearly more shocking than the change to his trust fund. His mother _never_ left messes for the next day. They filed out of the room; his mother tapped the tree with her wand, extinguishing the candles.

“Your things are in Draco’s room, Harry,” his mother said. “Up the stairs, and then the third room on the left. Draco,” she turned to him, “can I speak with you for a moment?”

Draco had expected this. She would want to talk, of course, without Harry there as a buffer. And that was an uncomfortable prospect.

“Anything you need to say to me, you can say in front of Harry.”

“It’s okay,” Harry told him. “I’ll go upstairs and shower.”

In what Draco thought was a very smug voice, his mother said, “You’ll find the bathroom just next to Draco’s room.”

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Harry said to Draco, who was eyeing him moodily. To his mother, Harry added, “Thanks for having me, Mrs. Malfoy.”

“We’re delighted to,” she said, giving him what Draco could have sworn was a genuine smile. With that, Harry climbed up the stairs, leaving them in the dark foyer.

“You don’t need to look so nervous, Draco,” she muttered. “I’m not going to punish you like a little boy.”

“I know that.”

“I only wanted to ask if you would be interested in visiting your father tomorrow.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t be interested.”

She leaned against the railing, her face drawing into the exasperated expression he had seen hundreds of times before. “Draco, you’re being unreasonable. Your father would like to see his son at Christmas. Theodore goes all the time to see his father.”

“Well, I’m not Theo,” he said. “I don’t want to go.” The anger was rising up in him, and he made little effort to tame it. “This is why I don’t answer your letters. Why I don’t do what you ask. I do one thing, and then you want another, and then another, and then another. It never ends.”

His mother pursed her lips. “You can’t avoid your father forever. You’re his son, Draco, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m aware,” he said in a bitter voice. “But I’m not ready to go. I might be ready someday, but for now, I’m not. So can’t we just drop it? For once, can’t we just have a nice, normal Christmas, without rowing?”

For a moment, his mother said nothing. Her eyes roved across his face, detecting, he imagined, all of the anger and the frustration that he had stored away for so long. Finally, she said, “I understand. You should get some sleep.” She reached out and placed a hand against his cheek. He thought she might ask about Harry—why he was there, how they had become friends, whether it was more, but she didn’t. She gave him one last, sad smile, and then climbed up the stairs. Draco didn’t follow. Instead, he sat on the bottom step, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes as he urged himself to relax, to breathe. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to spoil Harry’s Christmas. But the anxiety was mounting again, and it threatened to inundate him.

***

“God, she drives me mad,” Draco snapped as he stormed into his room. His anger was temporarily abated by the sight of Harry sprawled out on his bed. He had lit most of the candles in the room; they painted shadows across the walls and across Harry himself. It was unbelievably bizarre to have Harry Potter in his bedroom, in his bed, looking up as he entered as though nothing was amiss. He was dressed in his jumper and a pair of plaid pyjama pants. His hair was still wet from the shower.

“What happened?” he asked.

“She asked me to go to Azkaban. Just like I said she would.”

Draco climbed next to Harry, who was reading from a bit of parchment.

“I told her to drop it, and she did. But we’ll see how she is tomorrow. She’s _relentless_ , I’m telling you.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “We’ll be gone tomorrow morning, anyway. Just a bit longer.”

“You two have become great friends,” Draco said sourly. “You’re getting on like you’ve been mates for years.”

Harry sniggered. “Parents like me.”

“I’m going to go shower,” he announced, pushing himself off the bed. “And then first thing tomorrow, we’re leaving. We can have breakfast at the castle. I hate being here. You don’t find it—odd?”

“Not really,” Harry said. “It’s interesting, seeing your room.”

There wasn’t much to see, Draco thought: other than his bed and his writing desk, the only other furniture was a bedside table and bookcase. Above the desk, several photographs were pinned. They showed Draco with his parents, with his friends. And settled on the bag was his suitcase. Draco picked through his things, searching for his comfiest pair of pyjamas, refusing to look up at the photographs as the figures depicted waved happily at him.

Just as he located his pyjamas, Draco paused and turned to Harry. “Do you think it means anything, that my mother put your things in here? Instead of in a guest room?”

Harry looked up at him, a surprised look on his face. “Er. Maybe? Did she say anything?”

“No. But…I’ll hear about it, I’m sure.”

Harry chuckled as Draco stepped into the hallway and gently shut the door. It was eerily silent in the house. As quietly as he could, he entered the bathroom, lighting a single candle on the vanity. As he stripped off his dress robes and stepped into the shower, he felt distinctly ill at ease. He had only been gone for a few months, but the Manor was foreign to him. Under the hot spray of water, he reflected on the memories twisted together in the very walls of the house: happier times with his parents, with his family, with his friends who would visit over the summer. And then unhappy times when his father’s Mark had begun to burn, and then when Voldemort had arrived, making his presence known in every last inch of space. For a moment, Draco swayed; his Mark pulsed. He focused on lathering his hair and rinsing it, but it was no use. Without the distraction of Harry, and his nervousness around his mother, Draco was exposed to the onslaught of memories as they tumbled forth: Voldemort shrieking as he punished them for letting Potter go…Shrieks, deafening shrieks, as the Death Eaters punished another victim…Nagini’s hisses as she slithered through the house….

Draco stumbled out of the shower, catching himself on the vanity. Shaking, he reached in and shut off the water. He took one of the towels next to the sink and dried himself, avoiding his reflection. He didn’t want to see how scared he had become. He didn’t want to see how little of the Mark there was left. He couldn’t live like this anymore, he knew. It was time to set things right. He pulled on his pyjamas and then headed back into his room, where Harry was still lounging on the bed.

“Let’s do it,” Draco said. “I can’t anymore. I’m done.”

Harry sat up. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“My memories.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Come on.”

They slipped down the hallway as quietly as they could. At the end of the corridor was his father’s office.

“Isn’t it locked?” Harry whispered.

“It is, but I’ve known how to open it since I was seven.” Draco brought his palm to rest against the centre of the door. He waited one, two, three seconds, and then turned the knob widdershins. The door opened. They crept into the office, which looked exactly how his father had left it, save for the Pensieve sat upon his desk. Runes were carved around the edges, while the basin was filled with a silvery light.

“Severus’ Pensieve,” Draco muttered, though he knew it required no explanation.

Harry came to stand by the Pensieve, peering into it.

“Do you know how?” Draco asked. His hands were trembling.

“I think so,” Harry said. “But, Draco, if we do this…I think the Mark will come back. And you’ll remember everything again.”

“I know.” And he did know it; the thought was an awful one, but the alternative, of being plagued by his memories, was worse. “Let’s get it over with. I’m ready.”

“Okay.” Harry took out his wand and brought it to his temple. He screwed up his face in concentration, and then, as he took his wand away, glittering silver stands came along with it. Draco watched as he added his thoughts to the basin. The airy liquid in the bowl began to froth and spin. Still, Harry added more memories, relaxing his face now as it seemed to come easier. When he stopped, the contents of the bowl swirled slowly. Draco could make out his own, pale face within the mist.

“I think that’s everything,” Harry said. He sounded a bit hoarse.

“Can you still remember?”

“Yeah. I can still remember…but it’s all in there.”

“Right.” Draco stepped up to the Pensieve. He felt rather like he was about to be executed.

“You’ll be okay,” Harry whispered. “I’m going to touch you. Alright?”

“Alright.”

Harry’s hand came to rest on his arm. “Here, I’ll count you down. Three…two…one…”

Draco touched his nose to the airy liquid. Instantly, his father’s study lurched forward. He was falling now, falling through darkness—and it was cold—he squeezed his eyes shut, urging it to be over…and then the memories came to him all at once, competing for attention: Travers and Macnair, out in the garden…Screams, as someone was tortured—first by the Death Eaters, and then by Voldemort himself…His parents bickering over the Mark…His mother’s beautiful, terrified face…The Vanishing cabinet…The agony cracking through his bones as Voldemort punished him…Macnair’s waxy face, hovering over him…Voldemort’s red eyes…Again, his mother’s face, sad this time, disappointed….A flash of green light…And now, the memories began to pick up, whipping past him so quickly that he could barely catch his breath: Greyback, and then Macnair, and then Severus, and then Voldemort, and then Ollivander, and then Severus again—all these people he had either hurt, or who had hurt him—and then an image of himself crawling into bed, falling apart…

Draco stumbled back, gasping. His head was pounding. He fell into his father’s armchair, gripping his head, as Harry came to crouch down next to him.

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, pushing his hair away from his face. “Did it work?”

Draco slowly shook his head, as though trying to urge his memories to drift back together. His hair was still wet from the shower; little droplets of water flicked against Harry, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was checking Draco’s face, eyes full of concern.

Gradually, the room stopped spinning. The ringing in his ears died down. The vice that had been squeezing his head finally let off, and for the first time in ages, Draco felt as though he could take a deep breath. The anxiety dissipated, and in its place was a sense of relief so strong that he nearly cried. “I’m better,” he gasped. He rubbed at his face. “I feel better.”

Harry exhaled. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Can you remember?”

“Yeah, and it’s…it’s sort of raw.” As he cast among the new memories, they felt tender, as though he was poking an open wound. He could feel them slotting into place, weaving into the tapestry as his mind welcomed them back. In the crevices of his consciousness, he could still feel the old anxiety lurking—but it was tapered now, pushed to the sides as his very soul seemed to settle.

“You look better,” Harry said. “Not as tired.”

“Mmm.” Draco sat back, considering Harry as he kneeled next to him. “It’s like everything’s back where it should be. I still don’t _like_ the memories. But it’s better that they’re there.”

“And what about your Mark?”

It was only then that it occurred to him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Draco said. He hardly dared believe it.

“You don’t think…?” Harry trailed off. He sounded just as hopeful.

“You check it,” Draco whispered.

Harry took his arm in hand, as he had countless times before, and gently pushed up his sleeve. Even in the dark of his father’s study, the pitch-black Mark stood out sharply against Draco’s pale skin. The hideous skull seemed to taunt him.

Draco let out the breath he had been holding. “Well,” he said flatly. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry encouraged him. “It’s for the better, like you said.”

“It’s worse than I remembered,” Draco groaned. “It’s disgusting. Hide it, put my sleeve back down.”

Instead, Harry looked up at him fiercely, a strange scowl on his face. Then, very slowly, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s Mark. His Mark didn’t burn; it didn’t bother him at all. Instead, watching as Harry tenderly kissed his Mark, Draco felt himself melting. The sight was in turns intimate and erotic.

“I’ve told you,” he said solemnly. “Nothing about you could ever be disgusting.”

“Let’s…” Draco cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. “Let’s go back to my room.”

They slipped out of the study as quietly as they had entered. Draco pulled the door shut, pausing to check that his mother hadn’t woken. When he heard nothing, he took Harry’s wrist and pulled him down the hallway, opening the door for him and then closing it behind them. The moment the door snapped shut, Harry was crowding him against it, his lips hovering just above Draco’s.

“Kiss me,” Draco murmured. Harry took a moment to look at him, as though taking him in, and then finally he pressed their lips together, groaning as Draco deepened the kiss. Pressed up against the door, he basked in Harry’s warmth, his reassuring weight as his hands came up to cup Draco’s face. He felt protected, as though Harry was shielding him from the spectres still lingering in the house. He grabbed Harry’s shoulders and pulled him closer still. He smelled of shampoo from the shower, his hair still damp under Draco’s fingers. He was soft and hard all at once—his worn jumper and gentle hands contrasted sharply with the way he held Draco against the door. They kissed urgently, as though they were both aware of what was about to happen and neither of them could quite believe it.

They broke apart to catch their breath. Draco leaned his forehead against Harry’s as they panted.

“Are you okay?” Harry whispered.

Draco nodded. He felt feverish, caught somewhere between states of consciousness. It was difficult to sort out his thoughts, hazy as they were, but he knew that he wanted Harry on the bed. Now. And so he pushed off from the door and pulled him along, tugging his hand as he crawled up onto the sheets. Draco settled onto the pillows and reached for Harry, who came to lay next to him.

“You won’t hurt me,” Draco muttered. “I know you’re afraid. But you won’t.”

Harry began to trail his fingertips up and down Draco’s arm. “I don’t want to push you.”

“You won’t,” he insisted. “I know what I want. I’m not some sad victim, remember we said? I want this. You don’t have to ask me or check every time.”

Harry hummed to himself. The apprehension was clear on his face.

“If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.”

Their eyes met. Harry stopped rubbing his arm. “You swear?”

Draco nodded.

Harry wavered, and then said softly, “I’ve never done this.”

“I…” For a moment, the shadow of his memory made itself known, but he pushed it away—and away it went. Whatever had happened, it had nothing to do with the present moment, with Harry. “I haven’t either.”

Harry crawled onto Draco and then kissed him again, kissed him with an intensity that left Draco dizzy. His hands strayed to the bottom of Draco’s shirt, and then pushed up under the fabric. He shuddered as the calloused fingers trailed along his stomach, coming up to brush against his sides. Wanting to feel more, Draco sat up and pulled his shirt off over his head. The way Harry looked at him set his heart to staggering. But he wanted to feel him, too, and so Draco tugged at Harry’s jumper. Finally, he relented, sitting up and pulling it off, along with the shirt underneath. At the sight of him, Draco couldn’t wait for Harry to ease himself back down; he pushed up and caught Harry in a kiss, taking his fill as he explored the bare expanse of his shoulders, the contours of his chest.

Draco couldn’t decide where to start first. Finally, he settled on licking along Harry’s neck, pleased when that drew a shaky sigh out of him. And then he shifted lower, kissing past his collarbone, trailing barely-there kisses until he took a nipple in his mouth. At that, Harry groaned. His hand came up to hold the back of Draco’s head. Draco sucked and licked, teasing the other nipple between his fingers. Every little sound that came out of Harry’s mouth went straight to his cock. He knew Harry was hard—every once in a while, his hands grazed across the front of his pyjama pants, where his erection was obvious. And that made him nearly desperate with need.

Just as Harry had begun to make a soft whining noise in his throat that Draco liked very much, he abruptly pulled Draco away and set him back against the pillows. He kissed along the ridges of Draco’s collarbone, the breadth of his stomach, until he arrived at Draco’s waistband. There, he traced his tongue back and forth, back and forth, just barely skimming beneath his pants.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered. He didn’t want Harry to know how far gone he was already, and so he brought his hand to cover his mouth, biting into the base of his thumb to try to take the edge off.

“I can never get enough of you,” Harry said. His breath was warm against Draco’s skin. “I’ll never, never get enough of you.”

Harry gripped Draco’s hips, holding him down ever so gently as he continued to kiss along his stomach. Then, suddenly, he sucked hard on the tender flesh, and Draco gasped. That would leave another mark, Draco knew, and he squirmed at the thought. He was so hard it hurt. He began to rock under Harry’s hands, begging silently for some kind of contact, some kind of friction. At last, Harry took pity on him, and he hooked his fingers around the cotton waistband. So slowly it felt like a delicious sort of torture, Harry pulled his pants down. He slipped them past Draco’s feet and then tossed them to the side.

“Look at you,” Harry said, coming back to grip Draco’s hips. “Fuck, you look good.”

Draco shivered under Harry’s praise. He came even further undone when Harry, almost timidly, brought his hand to rest on Draco’s cock, giving one experimental stroke.

“God.” He couldn’t help it—the sight of Harry’s hand on him, combined with the awed look on his face, did all sorts of things to him. Harry stroked again, more firmly this time, and he had just seemed to fall into a rhythm when he leaned forward and took Draco’s cock in his mouth. The unexpectedness of it, along with the wet heat of Harry’s mouth, caused him to cry out. He tangled his fingers in Harry’s hair, rocking his hips as Harry hummed around him. He pulled off, and Draco feared for a moment that he hadn’t liked it, but then he began to lick from the base of his shaft to the tip, as though testing Draco’s reactions. And he had plenty of them: he bucked up when Harry sucked the tip of his cock, he made a keening noise when Harry ran his tongue against the slit.

All too soon, his cock began to stiffen, and he felt himself nearing the edge. But he wasn’t ready. With a groan, he sat up and pulled Harry away. Harry chirped in surprise, but Draco pushed their mouths together and he leaned into the kiss. Draco could taste himself on Harry’s lips.

“Take off your bottoms,” Draco gasped into Harry’s mouth. “Please? I want to taste you.”

He thought he might fall apart as Harry gave him a sly smile and then wiggled out of his pyjamas. His cock curved against his stomach, bobbing as Harry tossed his bottoms aside and then lay on the bed. Before he could lose his nerve, Draco reached forward and took Harry in hand.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” Draco said, and it was true—Harry’s stomach was slick with precum, coating Draco’s fingers as he stroked him.

“Yeah,” Harry said. The smile had been wiped from his face; he arched up into Draco’s touch, eyes fluttering shut. “I usually…I usually am.”

Draco swallowed hard. Something about that insight was so personal, so deeply intimate, that his stomach writhed and his heart set to quaking. Nobody else knew this about Harry. Nobody. And now he did. Delirious with arousal, he bent down and took Harry’s cock in his mouth. The taste was sharp, salty, the smell of Harry nearly overwhelming, but that was nothing compared to the surprised moan Harry gave. Draco was sure he had never heard anything so erotic in his life.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Harry was muttering, twisting his head this way and that as he pushed into Draco’s mouth. Feeling more confident, Draco took him as far as he could, drawing out a breathy sigh before pulling away again. He held Harry’s cock in his hand as he went, lazily stroking his shaft. Just as he started to get the hang of timing his hand with his mouth, Harry was pulling him away. They kissed, and there was very little finesse, but that didn’t matter. Draco knew what he wanted.

“Let’s do it,” he said roughly. He fell onto the bed. “Please? Do it. I want it.”

Though Harry’s eyes were still hazy, a worried look crept onto his face. “Draco…”

“I want it,” he went on. He was rambling, but he didn’t care. “I want you to. Please? Please, Harry?”

“Well…” Harry bit his bottom lip, studying Draco’s face. Finally, he said, “If you’re sure.”

Draco paused. “Do you want to?”

Harry cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s do it, then.”

Harry sat up and looked around the room. “Where are my pants?” He crawled to the edge of the bed and searched along the floor, presenting Draco with a very nice view of his arse as he did so. He dragged his pants up onto the bed and then searched the pockets, finally pulling out the vial from Blaise.

Draco grimaced; he could feel himself going red. “I can’t believe he did that.”

“Really?” Harry smirked. “I can.”

“Did you read the…the…” Draco motioned towards the vial, hoping Harry would catch his meaning.

“The instructions? Yeah. And Dean and Seamus gave me the run-down.”

“The _what_?” Draco yelped, mortified.

Harry dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “It’s fine, don’t worry. It was very educational.”

“Educational,” Draco said faintly.

He was mollified quickly enough when Harry pulled him back into his arms, kissing along his neck. He reached down and took Draco in hand again, grinning against his skin as Draco gave a soft moan. Gently, Harry pressed Draco’s jaw upwards and then came to kiss along his throat, sucking at the sensitive flesh until Draco was writhing.

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, Harry. Please.”

He felt giddy as Harry shifted to sit by the edge of the bed. He placed his hands on Draco’s knees and he understood, letting his legs fall apart so that Harry could settle between them. This was intimate on an entirely different level. He couldn’t help his embarrassment as Harry gazed at him, running a hand along his inner thigh. He had never felt so exposed before. The sound of the stopper as Harry uncorked the vial was very loud in the quiet bedroom.

“I’m going to touch,” Harry said. “Just touch, that’s all. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered.

He jumped as the tips of Harry’s fingers grazed his skin. Instantly, Harry pulled away. “Are you okay? Should I stop?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t _bad._ Just surprising.” When Harry hesitated, he said, “I’m fine. Go on.”

A moment of hesitation, and then Harry’s fingers were back again, warm and wet. They grazed along the curve of his arse, raising goosebumps on Draco’s flesh. He surprised himself by rocking his hips up to meet Harry’s touch, deeply stirred by the thought of someone touching him _there._

“I’m okay,” he said. “S’good. More.”

Harry’s fingers pushed forward, and Draco felt none of the trepidation he had worried might hold him back. Instead, he opened his legs wider, bringing his hands to cover his face as he moaned into his palms. The lubricant ran down in thick rivulets as Harry slowly began to rub at him. With his other hand, he caressed Draco’s thigh. Gradually, he eased in, and Draco gasped as a single digit penetrated him.

“You’re doing so good,” Harry muttered. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” It burned as Harry went deeper, but he adjusted himself on the sheets, taking a deep breath. Harry slipped out, almost withdrawing entirely, and then pushed back in again, and it was smoother this time. The ache gave away to a sense of fullness that Draco tried to breathe around. A few more strokes, and it was better, now: the pain edged into pleasure.

“Another?”

“Yeah.” This time, the burn was more acute. It stung as Harry pushed in. He reminded himself that Harry was there, that Harry would take care of him, that Harry took care of everything. “Talk to me,” Draco said. To his own ears, he was slurring. “I want to hear your voice.”

If Harry thought his request was odd, he didn’t show it. Instead, he rasped, “You look so good. You’re taking it so well. And you don’t…you don’t understand. How badly I want you. Fuck, I want you. And you’re _trusting_ me with this.”

Draco panted as Harry resumed his rhythm. His erection, which had flagged, was now pressing insistently against his stomach. “Another, another, another,” he said. He sounded desperate but he didn’t mind—he _was_ desperate. Harry introduced a third finger, and Draco was able to relax now, to take him in easily. The burn was sweet, soothing. He looked down at Harry, whose lips were parted, whose eyes were trained on his face as though he couldn’t bear to miss a single moment.

“Please?” Draco begged. “Do it. Please? I want you to.”

The fingers within him stilled. “Are you sure?”

“ _Harry,”_ Draco whined, twisting beneath him. “ _Yes_ , I’m sure. _Please._ ”

Carefully, Harry withdrew. Draco watched as he opened the vial again and then poured lubricant into his palm. He felt his own cock twitch as Harry coated himself. Then, he reached for his pants, and pulled out his wand.

“Sticky,” he offered by way of explanation as he tapped his hand clean.

Draco growled with impatience. At long last, Harry crawled on top of him. He looked nervous. “If it hurts—”

“If it hurts, I’ll push you off,” Draco said. “You’ll _know_ , believe me.”

Harry gave him a rueful grin. He shifted to take himself in hand, and then he parted Draco’s cleft, bringing his cock to rest against him. Their eyes met, and Draco nodded faintly. The breath rushed out of him as Harry pushed forward, breaching him at an exquisitely slow pace. There was still a soft burn, but it barely made itself known over the hammering of Draco’s heart and the rush of emotion he felt as Harry looked up to check on him. Slowly, he entered, inch by inch, and Draco gasped as he widened. When at last Harry was fully inside of him, he leaned forward and captured Draco’s lips in a gentle kiss.

“M’fine,” Draco mumbled. “Just give me a second.”

“You’re doing so good,” Harry whispered.

As the pain dissipated, Draco said, “Okay. Pull out and then in again—but slowly. Slowly.”

Harry did as he requested, drawing out before cautiously filling him once more.

“Again.”

As Harry dragged out and then back in, he closed his eyes. A little spasm of pleasure crossed his face. “Fuck, you’re tight. You feel so good.”

Draco groaned. The thought that Harry was enjoying this, was enjoying _him_ , felt so good that he rocked up against him. “Go ahead. Keep going.”

Finally, Harry began to thrust into him in earnest. Draco twisted his fingers into the ornate headboard above him, giving out breathy little moans as Harry pushed into him. He had never, ever felt like this.

“You’re in me,” he said, knowing it was a completely ridiculous and inane thing to point out but somehow feeling that it needed to be said. “You’re in me, I can feel you, _fuck_ I can feel you.”

Harry made a broken, gasping sound at that. He was beautiful as he pressed his forehead against Draco’s, eyes closed, face flushed. Everything came up in Draco at once—every little time Harry had asked before touching him, every moment he had smiled at him, comforted him, every second they had spent together in their spot. The vulnerability of having Harry inside of him would have been terrifying, but it wasn’t. He savored it, awed at the fact that it was Harry filling him, Harry caressing him, Harry making him feel so good.

He didn’t expect it when Harry shifted and wrapped his hand around his cock. “Oh, God.” He thrust into Harry’s fist, taken by his careless rhythm as he seemed to lose himself. “Fuck, you’re good. _Fuck._ ”

Try as he might, he couldn’t manage it anymore—the silky drag of Harry’s cock in him, his grip as he pumped him, it was too much. “Harry, I’m…I’m coming, I’m coming… _fuck_.” Everything seemed to stop as he hung on the edge of that precipice, unable to inhale or exhale, tightening until Harry twisted his wrist and then Draco just _collapsed_ , shouting out as he pulsed into Harry’s hand. Harry tumbled after him, crying and burying his head into the crook of Draco’s neck as he came. He was shuddering as he fell next to Draco, panting, face gleaming with sweat. They lay like that for what felt like an eternity, taking each other in, both privately digesting and mutually basking in what they had just experienced.

As he regained himself, Harry shifted over to take Draco in his arms. “Are you okay? Did it hurt?”

“Good,” Draco mumbled. “Was good.”

Harry gave a shaky laugh. “Let me get my wand, I’ll clean you.”

“Don’t go. Stay.”

He could feel Harry wavering, but finally he pulled Draco closer. He kissed the side of his head before settling in. Silence enveloped them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable; they were both, Draco knew, processing. There was plenty he wanted to say, but he couldn’t think of how to word it. He had already begun to ache, but that was fine—it was a reminder. A good reminder.

Suddenly, Harry said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t get rid of your Mark. But I’m glad we tried.”

“You think we would have ended up together?” Draco asked. “If we hadn’t?”

“Probably not.” In a teasing voice, Harry said, “We’re both stubborn prats.”

Much as Draco didn’t want to move, the wetness had become uncomfortable, and he was beginning to grow cold. Harry must have noticed—with a hint of amusement, he asked, “Now can I clean you up?”

When Draco nodded, he reached over for his wand. Once Harry had sorted them out, Draco crawled beneath the sheets, reveling in the feel of silk against his limbs. Harry climbed in after him, pulling Draco against his chest in what was soon becoming their usual position. It was very warm under the blankets, and very cozy, and soon Draco felt himself falling asleep.

“Let’s never leave here,” he mumbled against Harry’s chest. “Let’s just stay in bed forever and never leave.”

Harry chuckled. “Whatever you want. For now, get some rest.”

And so he did.

***

The pub was busy with the usual lunchtime crowd. Madam Rosmerta rushed between tables, filling pitchers and calling out orders in a harried tone. In contrast, their table was relaxed, unhurried: Harry sat back in his chair, absently fiddling with Draco’s fingers on the table, while Lavender leaned against Theo, listening to Pansy as she recounted how well she had done on her Charms N.E.W.T. Draco pretended to pay attention, although he had heard this story a dozen times already. Ron, meanwhile, was shaking his head as Blaise explained to him why the Cannons had lost their chance at placing in the league. Next to him, Hermione was rolling her eyes.

“Weasley, it’s basic maths,” Blaise said, exasperated. “Think of it. The Magpies are up by _three hundred points._ Unless the Cannons pull out some sort of miracle at their next game, or they Confund every single player, there’s just no way. None.”

“Shows how much you know,” Ron grunted.

“It’s a lost cause,” Harry told Blaise. “Believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Hermione said soothingly. “Once Harry starts playing for the Wasps, you’ll be supporting them instead. Won’t you, Ron?”

“Well, yeah,” Ron said, as though it was obvious.

“He won’t know what to do with himself,” Harry taunted. “He’s never supported a winning team before.”

Overhearing their conversation, Pansy let out a sharp squeal. “I can’t wait for the first match!” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been excited for a Quidditch season before.”

“We’ll see,” Harry said, ducking his head as he grinned. “We have a lot of new players…I don’t know how well we’ll do.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hermione said. “They have you practicing non-stop.” Draco detected a tinge of resentment in her voice; she hadn’t been pleased with how frequently Quidditch practice cut into Harry’s N.E.W.T.s revision.

“Draco, it must be so exciting, having front row seats to their practices,” Lavender said.

He shrugged. “It’s a bit boring, to be honest.”

Harry smirked, pushing him playfully. “Really? You nearly fainted when I pulled a Wronski Feint last time.”

Draco laughed along with the others; he could feel himself reddening. “You need to be _careful_ , that’s all.”

“I am careful,” Harry said. “I just want to be ready for our first match.”

“Well,” Draco sighed. “I’ll need to get a grip by then.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry reassured him, “your grip is fine.”

The others sniggered into their drinks as Ron stared up at the ceiling. He had the habit of turning temporarily deaf whenever Harry said anything salacious.

Theo pulled back his sleeve and checked his watch. “We’d better be going, Draco. Our appointment’s coming up. I told Greg we’d meet him at the Ministry, before Flooing in.”

There was much fanfare as everyone bid them goodbye. Privately, Draco thought it was a bit ridiculous: they were meeting for drinks again in two days. But he allowed himself to be hugged and squeezed, finally disentangling himself from Pansy long enough to pull on his cloak. Draco knew Ron was making a face when he leaned in to kiss Harry; amused, he lingered longer than he normally would have.

“I’ll see you later,” he said as he pulled away.

Harry gave him a lopsided smile. “Okay. Say ‘hi’ to your parents for me.”

Straightening his cloak, Draco waved at everyone one last time before following Theo out of the pub. It had drizzled earlier that morning; the smell of rain was sweet, thickening the air. The sun was struggling to burst out of a cover of clouds. Even as winter tried to resist, spring was blooming into life.

“Shall we Apparate, then?” Theo asked, already drawing out his wand.

“I’ll see you there.” Once Theo had Disapparated, Draco took a moment to pause, to check in with himself, as his Healer had advised. His hands were steady, his pulse was normal. His head felt clear. There was perhaps, in the corner of his mind, a little niggling fear, but that was normal. He still didn’t fancy the Dementors, or the trip to the Ministry. He had been working in Magical Law Enforcement for two weeks now, but the lifts still gave him trouble, and he avoided the courtrooms entirely. Still, he was managing. And most importantly, he was able to settle into the fear, making himself known as he refused to be cowed. Satisfied, he lifted up his wand. And he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I hope you enjoyed this final part of the fic. Your support has been so wonderful, and has really made this story a pleasure to write. There's also now a playlist for the fic! You can find it at:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6lKoiJdxKbKgFrUs67CFnC?si=CS69pLmnRA2OXEUZsuk-1w
> 
> Thanks for reading, and take care.


End file.
